


Paper Things

by saltandanchor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Humor, M/M, Pretty Woman AU, Romance, Violence, references to previous rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 67,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandanchor/pseuds/saltandanchor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is good at what he does. He's just not so good with everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hate, Arthur thinks, is a misunderstood thing.  

Hate has shades—tastes even, if you roll it around on your tongue long enough. Arthur’s hated a lot of things in his life and every single one is catalogued, tucked away into one of the neat black file cabinets he keeps stacked inside his head.

He hated wearing hand-me-downs from kids he never met at foster homes he never stayed at for long. That hate was something sour, sticking to his mouth like milk gone bad. He hated every school where they called him a fairy, where someone would pull him behind the bleachers to punch him one day and feel him up the next. Being hit tasted like dirty copper, like pennies put in a blender and poured down his throat. Being touched when he didn’t want it was worse. It tasted like dog shit and cigarette butts and chapstick that wasn’t his. He hated that he couldn’t stop them, hated how he was skinny and weak then, that he didn’t know how to throw a punch, to drive a car, to use a gun. Feeling powerless tasted like battery acid.

But hate is useful. It can push life into paper veins, can run through you like antivenom and clear out everything that cripples. It did for him. It kicked him forward, got him to run from that house and that school and that dirt smudge of a town. 

Hate got him to the other side of the country, to a bare one bedroom in the bad part of Hollywood. He should probably hate that too, the apartment, but he can’t. Even if it is shitty, it’s the one thing that’s his. 

Arthur will admit, though, that there is nothing in this world he hates quite as much as the ice-cold water he wakes up to there. 

He stands in his tiny shower, feeling the frozen spray trickle and spit out of the pre-war pipes, and tries not to punch the tile.

Once he’s toweled off and returned to a less miserable temperature, he walks over to his sliver of a closet and thinks about what to wear; it’s more like choosing what part to play. Becoming someone else lends a clean simplicity to the whole exchange. It pulls Arthur further from it, spreading a stage out between him and his audience. It gives him distance, control.

That’s why he does what he does. He can’t say he enjoys it, but the reality is that nothing could give Arthur more pleasure than his independence, than being in control of his own life. This is the best way for him to keep that. 

The money is good, the hours are short, and he doesn’t have to be bound down by things like schedules, bosses, background checks, or any kind of rules meant to cage. This is his to say yes or say no to—every night, every job. All he has to do in exchange for that unfettered freedom is swallow down some stranger for an hour.

He shimmies on his tiny neon underwear, a pair of acid-washed skinny jeans, and a tight yellow T-shirt with green glitter glued all over the front of it. He sweeps his hair over his face in a way that looks younger than he feels, and tries out a wink in the mirror. He fits the part.  

He goes over to his computer, takes a picture, and uploads it along with his usual ad. It’s something Arthur painstakingly composed, making sure it held the right balance between cloying come-hither promise and a clear outline of what he will and won’t do.

It takes less than a minute for the responses to start, less than five for Arthur to have too many to choose from.

He sorts through them with shrewd precision, practiced at picking over emails like this. Arthur knows what to look for, the tells of each john rising into view as clear as neon road signs. He can quickly eliminate the ones that seem too dangerous, too unpredictable, too much trouble for one night.

He drags all the promising responses into a separate folder and goes through them a second time. He approaches the task with a clinical thoroughness, running the IP addresses of every john through a program that cross-references it with public records. In about ten minutes, Arthur possess a neat excel sheet detailing who they are, where they’re emailing from, if they have a criminal record, what their credit score is, and a flood of other information that is mostly useless but will sometimes catch Arthur’s eye. He once eliminated a john specifically because of the library books he had checked out.

The research aspect of what he does is the one part Arthur genuinely enjoys. There is something so satisfying about it, about gathering information on all of these men who think they’re cloaked in careful anonymity. They must congratulate themselves on being clever enough to create separate email accounts to reply to ads like Arthur’s, ones with addresses like l0vesy0ungc0ck@gmail.com or hungdaddy81477@aol.com. These, of course, do nothing to slow Arthur’s pursuit of their personal information (though Arthur will obviously never pick someone with an AOL account—he has standards).

Arthur keeps track of these email addresses too, cross-referencing them with ones posted on message boards by other men who do what Arthur does, exchanging stories about who was quick, who was messy, who paid extra, who tried to hurt them. Arthur makes sure to post regularly himself, warning them away from anyone his research reveals to be dangerous.

This meticulous system makes Arthur’s job so simple it hardly takes thinking about. He’s never run into trouble on a job except for a few very minor incidents when he was just starting out, before he was smart enough to be this careful. And even if he were to wind up in a bad situation, Arthur can take care of himself. He made sure of that. As soon as he had the money and the time to devote to it, he started training, learning every way one person can kill another.   

Arthur doesn’t want to kill anyone—he’s never hurt anyone in his life, actually. But he wants to know that he  _could_ , if he had to.

During the three years he’s been in California, he’s trained in boxing, judo, capoeira, karate, mauy thai, and Israeli street fighting. He can fire a gun, throw a knife, and, if absolutely necessary, dislodge an Adam’s apple with a spoon.

It’s all he does with his free time, aside from reading, sleeping, and his research. It works for him. It keeps him fit, fills out his skinny frame with long muscles that are flexible and taut—muscles that are useful for attracting clients and making sure he could put any of them down in a flat second. Arthur could probably pull a john’s spine straight out of his neck before he got Arthur knocked out or tied up or whatever else he was stupid enough to try. Arthur will never be powerless underneath someone else's hands, not again.

“Glitter tee today, huh? Must be a big night.”

Arthur lets out a long sigh, wistfully considering all the ways he could disembowel his intruding neighbor if he were a lesser person. 

“Speaking of clothing,” Arthur replies, without bothering to look over at Ariadne, who has once again entered without knocking, “don’t think you’re being cute sneaking your shit into my laundry. This is the last time.”

He hears her shoes drag across the ragged floorboards toward the hamper, listens to the soft sound of hands drifting over cloth.

“Oh Arthur—you ironed!”

“Last time, Ari. I mean it.”

“Absolutely, very last time, I promise,” she says. 

Arthur doesn’t even spare the energy to roll his eyes, knowing full well she’ll do it again next week if not sooner.   

“You know, if you’re going to be here all the time, why don’t you just move in. At least then you’d have to pay me some rent.” 

“And give up all the luxuries of 3A? Never.”

“Do you get hot water in 3A? Because if you do, then I’m moving in.”

“No more than you’re getting in 3B, I’d suspect." 

Arthur groans. The hot water thing is really getting to him.

“Is this even fucking legal? I’m going to research the housing codes for Los Angeles County because there is absolutely no way—”

“Aren’t those pants a little tight for doing research?" she says. "How can you even think when, you know…?”

He looks over at Ari, who is making a squeezing gesture in front of her crotch while giving Arthur a pained look. 

“The denim is very breathable,” Arthur replies flatly. 

She laughs at him—one of those honest, rolling belly laughs that charms Arthur more than it should. He smiles, despite himself.

“Ari, I’m working, can we do this later?”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving. Who’s the lucky shmuck by the way?” she asks, leaning in to peer over his shoulder.

Ari is the only person who knows what Arthur does, probably because she is really the only person Arthur knows.

He never intended to be friends with her—Arthur has never really had friends, per se—but she sort of shoved her way into his life and he never managed to scare her off. He thought the whole orphan-turned-prostitute-turned-trained-killer thing would be enough to put off anyone—especially five-foot-nothing architecture students with big innocent doe eyes—but Ari remains unruffled.

“I don’t know yet. I just started going through the list,” Arthur answers.

She pores over his excel sheet, scanning the information with speed.

“This one,” she says, pointing to line 26. “Definitely this one.”

Line 26 is the one with the least information. It contains only three details:

 

_Hardware: MacBookPro 5,5 org.reg. LONDON, U.K._

_Access Location: Regent Beverly Wilshire PENT-SUITE-1_

_User Information: Eames, [no first name logged]_

“Why would I pick a john I know nothing abo—”

“Do you know what PENT-SUITE-1 means?” she asks, in a leading tone.

“I assume it means one of the penthouse suites,” he counters, trying not to let Ari think she knows more than him.

“Yes, but  _Penthouse 1_  at the Beverly-freaking- _Wilshire_ —that’s the Presidential Suite!”

“How could you possibly know that?” he asks, miffed that she might have more information about something like this than him.

“It’s an older architecture term that has to do with labeling units of rooms in terms of size. If it’s in the hotel access system as Penthouse 1, that means it’s the largest of the penthouses, which in this case means  _presidentially_  large, which in your case means  _you should pick that guy.”_

“You really don’t understand how—”

“All I’m saying is that there is a guy on your list staying in the Presidential Suite at the swankiest hotel on the West Coast, so you might want to consider him.”

“That’s not the way I do—”

“Whatever! Good luck, and don’t forget to text me where you’re going once you decide!” She walks out the door with her ill-begotten laundry clutched tightly to her chest, as though Arthur might choose to yank it back from her.   

The door drifts closed, and Arthur turns back to his screen, perplexed.

He scans the list again. Even though line 26 contains the least personal information, it’s still a tempting offer—someone staying in a hotel that nice will definitely pay Arthur what he’s owed, and it’s an extremely safe location, more so than a lesser hotel and far more than a personal residence.

He clicks open the email response from number 26, and starts to read.

 

 _christ, I really never do this, but I was deathly bored tonight and started to click a bit around the site, mostly for a laugh. then I saw your photo and just couldn’t keep myself from dropping a line to you. im certain that sounds rather idiotic but I assure you it’s true._  

 _i am out of my depth with all of this im afraid,  but if you’re free tonight darling i'd love to take you out. money not a problem, we can go where you like._  

_cheers x_

 

It’s unusual, to say the least.

That isn’t really a positive in Arthur’s book. He prefers predictable to anything else. But at least this response is sort of a sweet unusual, if you had to call it something. There is nothing about smearing hot come on Arthur’s face, nothing about how huge the guy's cock is, nothing about how tight Arthur must be. It’s—almost more like he’s asking Arthur on a date.

Arthur rereads the email three times, trying to pry apart the sentences and dig around for any hidden meanings or nefarious implications. If there are any, he can’t find them.

Arthur, in his ad, always requests a photo. Many johns ignore this but Arthur tends to prefer the ones who include it, if only because it gives him more information and a clearer sense of what he’s getting himself into. Number 26, as it happens, sent him one.

He clicks through to see a very bad selfie the guy appears to have taken on a balcony somewhere. It’s blurry, taken hastily. He's shirtless. The guy is not what Arthur would have pictured. He’s big—not fat, but built—with swirling tattoos and pillowly lips.

 _Huh_ , Arthur thinks. He’s attractive.

It’s by no means the most important factor to Arthur, but it can make the job simpler if he finds his john pleasant to look at. It allows him to play the part more easily—makes the moans more authentic, the stuttered breaths less rehearsed. If there is even the tiniest flint of real desire hanging in his eyes when he looks at the john, the counterfeit is cleaner.

He puts number 26 on the shortlist, and keeps going.

By the time he’s gone through the entire spreadsheet, he’s flagged five criminals, seven sex offenders, one congressman, two priests, and someone who plays Captain Hook at Disneyland. These, obviously, are rejected.    

The shortlist of acceptable clients comes down to only four people— Number 8, Number 26, and Number 39, and Number 42. 

Arthur weighs the choices, taking in the pros and cons of each one, and decides on Number 39. He seems boring, straightforward, simple to please, and he’s at a nice hotel. It might not be the Regent Beverly Wilshire, but it’ll do fine.

He writes out a reply asking for a time and a place (even though Arthur already knows the place). He doesn’t have to wait long for a response—Number 39 sends him a polite but eager reply in less than three minutes.

Arthur, satisfied with his choice, packs his usual bag—an efficient mix of condoms, lubricants, and tasteful sex toys (plus his clip blade butterfly knife, just to be safe)—and heads out the door.

He texts Ari as he walks—

_Heading to Sunset Towers, Rm 1701. John is No 39. Back in two hours._

His phone beeps back immediately. 

_what abt number 26?!!_

Arthur sighs into the thin night air.

Number 26 was tempting. Lavish hotel, attractive guy, disarmingly nice note. But Arthur just didn’t have enough information to be confident in picking him. Number 26 was peculiar. Not a bad peculiar, but just—peculiar.

Arthur doesn’t like peculiar. He likes expected, predictable, neat.

He texts Ari this in response, and she lets it go.

They got into the habit of doing this, him and Ari, ever since they split a bottle of wine and bag of Doritos on his kitchen floor and Arthur told her what he did for money. She didn’t judge him, not at all—she seemed impressed, actually, by how systematic he was with the whole thing. But she asked him to text her from then on, letting her know where he was going and how long it should take for him to get back.

He doesn’t mind it—it’s nice that someone actually cares about where he is, wants to know if he’s okay. But there’s just no point. Arthur is careful enough that he doesn’t need the insurance policy and he has no idea what Ariadne would even do were he not to come back. If Arthur ended up in a situation so dire he couldn’t manage to get himself out of it, there is no way Ari could help. 

Then again, what the hell does Arthur know? Ariadne might turn out to be an absolute terror and show up with brass knuckles and a rusty kitchen knife to take down the whole place. 

He laughs out loud at the image, picturing it as he crosses Hollywood Boulevard.

That’s probably why he doesn’t notice the car about to hit him.  

“JESUS CHRI—” Arthur screeches, leaping left to dodge the erratic vehicle.  

The car slams to a halt, jerks forward, stops, goes, jumps the curb, stops again, goes again, then, finally, shudders to stillness.

The engine silences and a man tears out from the drivers seat with a look of absolute horror painted over him. 

“I am  _so_  bloody sorry, you have no idea, I can’t drive this thing for  _shit_ , it’s the last time I buy Italian, I promise you, oh Christ love, tell me you’re not hurt, I’m used to driving on the other side of the _bloody road_  is the thing, and I only just bought this ludicrous car and clearly do not know how to—” 

 _Not a chance_ , Arthur thinks, frozen into silence. There is absolutely no way.

“Do I know—” The man narrows his eyes at him. 

Arthur watches realization dawn on Number 26 the same way it cracked open for him about ten seconds earlier.

“Oh bloody fuck,” the man says. “You’re—” 

“Yeah, I am,” Arthur confirms, trying to move things along, “And I’m fine, and alive, so have a good night.”

Arthur walks away. The man follows. 

“Wait—”

“Look,” Arthur says, letting some bite into his voice as he continues ahead, “I’m not free tonight, I’m not going to your hotel with you, I’m not doing anything with you, so stop following me.”

“Would you just—”

“Can’t you take a fucking  _hint_?” Arthur spits. The last thing he needs is a john he turned down stalking him on the way to a job.     

“ _Darling_ ,” the man pleads. And he’s— 

He’s laughing.

Arthur stops and turns at the sound, not understanding what the hell could be so funny.

He sees the man hold up something in his outstretched hand.

“Darling—your bag?” A smirk as huge as the Hollywood sign lights the man’s face.

Arthur stands there, a knot in his jaw, fuming soundlessly at the world.

The man takes a few steps closer, politely settling the bag at Arthur’s feet. Then he backs away, hands lifted playfully in submission as though Arthur’s silent fury is a gun cocked in his direction.

“Thanks,” Arthur grunts out. 

“My pleasure,” Number 26 says, lowering his hands into his pockets. 

Arthur looks at his watch. He’s going to be late now, which means he can’t meet Number 39. It’s one of his strictest rules. One of the only times a john tried to hurt him was when he showed up late to a job. It was the third trick he turned—he was stupid then, new at it. Arthur never repeats his mistakes.

“After all this,” the man offers, interrupting Arthur’s thoughts, “I really do feel I owe you the bare courtesy of a meal. I’d be happy to take you anywhere you like.” 

Arthur, no longer finding himself in a rush, looks Number 26 over. He takes in all the details. The man is dressed in a somewhat ill-fitting but still terrifyingly expensive suit. He looks just as rakish as he did in his photo, a three-day stubble shading his jaw. His accent is rough and alluring, like silk slipped over charcoal. An easy smile never quite leaves his lips.

And the car behind him—the one he almost hit Arthur with—is a Lamborghini Gallardo Bicolore.

Arthur, honest to God, almost swoons.

He’s never owned a car, not once in his life, but he loves them. He took a stunt driving class last year—figured it’d be a good skill to fold into his repertoire. The entire experience felt to him like what he imagines sex feels like to other people. He’ll never forget the feeling of sinking his foot onto the pedal until it purred, taking corners so hard the tires burned the road beneath him. It felt like pure, screeching freedom.

Arthur stares at $200,000 of garish yellow idling on the pavement in front of him, and fuck if it isn’t the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. Honestly, if that car had hit him, he wouldn’t even have minded.

“Okay,” Arthur hears himself say. 

“Sorry?” 

“I’m—my schedule. It cleared up. So if you’re still interested,” Arthur elongates the word, making it clear what they’re talking about, ”then I’m yours.” 

He pulls on a coy smile, the kind that usually makes his clients buckle at the knees.

Arthur watches Number 26’s breath stall out, and knows it worked. 

“Brilliant,” the man replies. 

“One condition,” Arthur says, stepping forward to breathe it against the man’s ear, “I’m driving.”

“Oh darling,” Number 26 says, close enough that his stubble grazes Arthur’s jaw, “I insist on it—you’ll save an entire city, I promise you.”

Arthur laughs.

Arthur never laughs with a client. Arthur never does anything like this, actually. But he already researched this john, already knows where he’s staying, what his last name is—and after all the time Arthur’s spent studying people, he knows how to get a sense for someone right away.

The sense he gets from Number 26 is that he must be as bored as he is rich. He seems a little bit lonely, a little bit cocky. Most importantly, he seems like no threat to Arthur or to to anyone else, as long as he’s not let behind the wheel. 

“Come on,” Arthur beckons, sliding on the velveteen voice he uses with his johns, “I’m taking you for a ride.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur thinks he may be having a religious experience. 

He understands now why people built cathedrals and fought crusades and flung themselves onto pyres to die because if they felt half as strongly about all that as Arthur does about this car—he gets it.

He really, really does. 

“Where should I be going?” Arthur asks, because it seems like the polite thing to do.

“Any place,” Number 26 says. “I’ve nowhere in particular to be. Just drive it around if you like.”

It takes every ounce of Arthur’s self-control to keep the raw, screaming ecstasy off his face.

“Alright,” he says. He presses his foot to the gas a little more firmly, thrilling at the feeling.

He knows he can’t push it as hard as he wants or Number 26 will think he’s trying to steal the car or get them killed or something. So Arthur drives, as much as it pains him, with control and fineness, not one notch above the speed limit.

“What’s your name?” Number 26 asks. 

Arthur typically gives a false answer to this question. He started pairing the names with the outfits he puts on, just for simplicity—he gives “Travis” when he wears the glitter thing he has on today.

But maybe it’s the car, or the weird way this whole night happened, because for some reason Arthur hears himself say,

“Arthur.” 

Number 26 smiles. 

“Arthur,” he repeats, rolling it over his accent so that the dips and curves of the word make it sound less like a name and more like a secret kept between them.

Arthur feels his face heat. “What about you?” 

“I’m Eames,” Number 26 replies easily.

This irks Arthur. He was expecting to get a first name out of him—something that could help Arthur feel like he was gaining back the upper hand in the situation by snatching up a new piece of information. As it stands now, Eames knows nearly as much about Arthur as Arthur knows about him.

That, obviously, is unacceptable.

Arthur winds the car tamely around a hill, doing his best not to hammer the gas in a hiss of frustration. 

“Don’t hold back on my account.”

It takes Arthur a second to register that Eames said anything.

“I—what?”

“You look like you’re about to split in two from how hard you’re attempting to follow the speed limit. Have at it, then.”

Arthur darts a glance across the car.

“You—want me to speed?” Arthur asks, his voice gripping the words as tightly as his hands are gripping the wheel.

“Well, I tend to think of those signs as suggestions.”

“You consider speed limits suggestions?” Arthur asks, unable to keep the flat hum of condescension out of his voice.

“I consider laws to be suggestions, rules to be useless, and good intentions to be the very worst of the three.” Eames answers. “Take a left there, onto Mulholland.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “You want me to speed, in your car, on Mulholland Drive? Do you know how many hairpin turns—”

“I want to see what kind of trouble you can get up to, yes. I can tell you’re holding back, Arthur, and my life hasn’t been in danger in ages, so go on.”

Arthur idles at a stop sign and turns in his seat to face Eames.

They observe each other. Then Arthur leans over, reaching past Eames’ shoulder to grip the dangling metal of the seatbelt. Stubble grazes his forearm as he pulls, tugging it down across Eames’ body. Arthur takes his time with the movement, noting the way Eames tenses slightly and then lets that tension go in a faint shiver as Arthur’s knuckles drag over his chest along with the stretching line of the belt.

Arthur smiles, pleased at the predictable effect.

He pulls the belt all the way down, clicking it into place at Eames’ hip. He lets his hand linger, just there, watching Eames’ eyes glass and his breath thicken almost imperceptibly.

Eames might know Arthur’s name, but Arthur knows how to do this—knows how to make men break open under his touch. 

He sweeps his thumb over the knot of Eames’ hipbone just to watch the man’s mouth slacken in response. 

“If you don’t want me to hold back,” Arthur says, drowning the words in that same velvet tone, “you’re going to need this.”

Arthur yanks the seatbelt an inch off of Eames’ chest, then lets it slap back into place with a light crack.

Eames narrows his eyes. “That shiny shirt of yours belies a terror underneath, I can see it now.”

Arthur smiles at that a little more earnestly than he means to.

“Sit back, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur adjusts his mirror, sets the dials, shifts the gear, and punches the gas.

 

*** 

 

It’s a breathless thing, tearing down Mulholland. 

The tires scream against the ground, gripping at the curves Arthur forces them through. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate, just takes the road the way he imagines Vikings took shores.

He pushes it to the triple digits and nearly moans out loud.

The turns should be terrifying at this speed, but Arthur completes them cleanly, never drifting over the divider, never dropping a gear. The car feels alive under his hands—a panting, muscular thing, begging to be commanded.

He’s never been so turned on in his _life._

By the time they’re at the bottom of the hill, Eames is hooting like a madman and Arthur’s hands are shaking from how hard he held the wheel. 

“Christ!” Eames bellows out between laughs.

“Where is your hotel?” Arthur asks, already turning the car in the right direction.  

“The Beverly Wilshire, it’s on—”

“I know the place,” Arthur says, speeding through stale yellows.

It’s rare, so fucking rare, that Arthur feels like this, and he’s going to capitalize on it. He’s going let Eames fuck him, and he’s going to get paid a lot of money for it, and he is maybe, _maybe_ going to enjoy it a little for once.  

Arthur makes it to the hotel in no time at all, slowing only to savor the last few feet of road before he stops in front the valet stand.

Arthur cuts the engine and is about to get out when Eames rests a hand on his thigh. It’s neither lewd nor chaste, the touch. It feels uncomplicated, just warm pressure pushing through denim.

Eames looks at him. “Would you come upstairs with me, Arthur?”

It’s so weirdly out of place, the asking of it, as though Eames didn’t proposition Arthur an hour ago with a grainy selfie—as though that proposition wasn’t in answer to an ad that described Arthur as having a ‘ _cream white ass made for cock’_. 

It’s insulting, almost. That Arthur would have to sit through some empty seduction just to—what? Make this guy feel better about paying for sex?

It should irritate him, or at least make the whole thing condescending. But it’s—and Arthur feels stupid for thinking this, and maybe it’s all those fucking cold showers messing with his head and leaving him starved for any kind of warmth, even the barely-there kind that passes between people, but it’s—

It’s nice. To be asked.

“Yes,” he says.

That easy smile settles back into Eames’ lips, and he gets out of the car.

Arthur follows, closing the door behind him and handing the keys over to the valet, who looks him up and down in mute horror.

Arthur cringes, remembering his glitter everything.

“Evening, Mr. Eames,” the valet greets, as though Arthur isn’t there. “Will you be needing the car again tonight?”

“God, no,” he answers, leaving a tip on the valet stand and settling a hand at the small of Arthur’s back to lead him inside the doors.

Inside—the lobby, it’s—

“Holy shit,” Arthur says out loud.

It’s not his style exactly (too baroque, too old money), but the flawless elegance of it all is overwhelming. The glossy tile, the heaping flowers, the intricately carved wood, everything, every impeccable inch—it’s beautiful in a way Arthur has only seen in movies or maybe his more masochistic dreams.

It’s going to hurt, he thinks. It’s going to break his fucking heart, actually, to walk out of here in an hour and know he won’t be back. He’ll never have sex in sheets this nice again. There is a small but very distinct tragedy in that.

“Fuck,” he says, to all of it.

“It’s all right,” Eames says, pulling his coat over Arthur, “You’re all right, come on.”

It’s only when Eames tugs him gently at the wrist that Arthur realizes he stopped dead in the middle of the lobby.

“Good evening, Mr. Eames,” the receptionist greets as they approach a giant oak desk. She also ignores Arthur, but at least does so more politely than the valet. 

“Any messages?” Eames asks, in a tone that suggests he hopes there are not. He settles his coat more evenly around Arthur.

“Yes, several,” she replies, handing him a stack of envelopes.

“Cheers,” he answers wearily, flipping through them without much enthusiasm.

Arthur remembers the little _x_  that Eames settled next to the same expression earlier in the night. He wonders if Eames always does that—if he always says “Cheers”, if he always includes an _x_ when he puts it in writing, if the existence or number of _x'_ s has any meaning or if it’s all part of some standard British sendoff.

“Could you send up some champagne and strawberries, please?” he asks, tucking the envelopes under his arm.

“Absolutely, Mr. Eames.” She picks up the phone immediately to make the order.

Eames resettles his hand at the small of Arthur’s back and walks him toward a bank of elevators covered in elaborate gold filigree. There is a couple waiting there—stuffy, older, dripping in expensive clothes. They look at Arthur, and the way Eames is holding him casually at the waist, with unmasked disgust.

It pisses Arthur off. It really does. He knows he doesn’t belong in a place like this, knows he’s probably making a spectacle of himself spilling into this hotel at midnight with Eames, with Eames’ hands on him, and maybe these people aren’t even appalled by Arthur himself, maybe it’s more from seeing two men together like this, _any_ two men—the possibility of which makes Arthur feel less self-conscious but about ten times more furious.

The whole thing must lead to a sizeable crack in Arthur’s sanity because the words tumble out of him before he can stop himself—

“Oh babe, you know what happened?” Arthur says, in a sticky-sweet voice he doesn’t even recognize.

Eames lifts his eyebrows.

“I got the wrong kind!” Arthur sighs, drawing a red-capped bottle of Astroglide out of his bag with a flourish. “I know you like the berry-flavored one, I’m sorry.”

Two gasps pierce the air behind him.

Arthur knows he just fucked this entire night—this entire _job_ —but it was worth it for that.

He braves a look at Eames, expecting to be slapped or cursed out or at least scowled at hard enough to feel it like a bruise tomorrow. Instead, he watches unfiltered glee rise up into the man’s features.

“Oh darling,” Eames says, his accent trilled to the nines, “you’ll taste just as good in cherry, I’m sure of it.”

He leans in, nipping at the skin just below Arthur’s ear. There is a second set of gasps, shriller this time.

“Cheeky,” Eames whispers, low enough that it’s only for Arthur.

A thick _ding_ marks the elevator’s arrival. Eames steps back to allow Arthur to walk in first, then follows.

“Evening, Mr. Eames,” the attendant greets, pressing the button for the penthouse without having to be asked.

The couple does not join them, allowing Arthur and Eames a parting view of their appalled expressions as the doors slide closed. 

They sit on the pillowed couch behind them (Arthur could ask why there is a couch in an elevator but knows the inevitable answer is _rich people_ ), watching the floors tick by in silence.

They last three, maybe four seconds, before losing it.

There are tears in Arthur’s eyes. Actual goddamn tears. He can’t speak, he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything really but lean against Eames and scrape out laughs that are more hiccup by the end. Eames is worse, overcome with these huge, heaving guffaws that physically shake the both of them. He manages to gulp down a heroic lungful air every few seconds just to wheeze, “Their _faces!_ ”

At some point Arthur regains enough of his senses to notice they’ve long since arrived at their floor. The attendant is standing patiently in front of them, a gloved hand curled over the elevator door to keep it open. He clears his throat politely, probably not for the first time.

Eames notices this too, and they manage to get themselves together and walk out into the hallway. Arthur watches Eames slap an enormous tip into the elevator attendant’s hand and exchange a meaningful smile with him—one that says this is not the first time Eames has been involved in some kind of shenanigans during the short trip between the lobby and the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, once the attendant is gone. “Those people—I couldn’t help myself.”

“Christ, don’t apologize,” Eames says, pulling out a keycard and dropping it onto the door lock. “I can’t tell you how many years of my life were spent doing nothing but scandalizing the crotchety elite of this world. It was my most favorite thing.”

“What made you give it up?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t know," Eames says, the years seeming to press up into the lines collected around his eyes. "I became one of them, I suppose.” 

Eames opens the door, leading the way into to a massive suite that is somehow even more luxurious than the lobby below. He leaves his briefcase by the door and tosses his stack of letters onto an already cluttered desk.

Arthur shrugs the borrowed coat from his shoulders, hanging it neatly in the entryway closet. He frowns, having to brush at it a few times to get all of the errant glitter off of it.

He is edging the door shut when he feels two wide palms slide around his waist, tugging him gently backwards.

Arthur smiles. This, finally, is the easy part, the part he knows.

He pushes his ass back against Eames’ crotch and feels a slow breath stutter through his hair.

“I don’t know how this works,” Eames says, his lips against the skin at Arthur’s nape. 

“You’re doing pretty well,” Arthur answers, pulling Eames’ hand down until his fingertips tuck under Arthur’s waistband and brush at the dark, coarse hair there.

The doorbell cuts into the air, shrill and insistent.

“That,” Eames sighs, “would be the champagne.”

“I’ll get it,” Arthur offers. The line of Eames’ half-hard cock pressing against his ass is probably a sign that the man isn’t fit to be answering doors.

“Good evening,” the attendant greets when Arthur answers. “Where would you like it?”

Arthur looks over at Eames, who has valiantly managed to right himself—his clothes smoothed out, his tie straightened.

“Where would we like it?” Arthur asks, drippingly coquettish.

“Over by the bar would be fine, thank you,” Eames says, his voice smoothed out just like his clothes. Arthur doesn’t know if he should be impressed or maybe insulted.

Eames steps forward to fold a bill into the attendant’s hand. He steers him out the door while Arthur examines the elaborate display in front of him.

He thought he knew what champagne and strawberries would look like, but he was wrong. The champagne is corked and set on ice, the label inky black with embossed lettering all in French. The strawberries are arranged on a scalloped silver tray, done three ways: one pile chocolate-dipped, one pile plain, and one pile cut into cubes and coated in a fine layer of what looks like sugar.

Arthur notices there are small placards set out in front of each pile _. ‘Brunoise-Cut with French Sea Salt’_ says the one on the end, in elegantly sloped cursive.

 _Rich people_ , Arthur thinks.

“Try one,” Eames says at his shoulder.

“They’re just strawberries,” Arthur says, pinching one between his fingers. He should probably be trying to feed these seductively to Eames or something but he just can’t bring himself to stay in character when this is so ridiculous. It’s a fucking _berry_.

“Stick in the mud,” Eames murmurs, picking up a chocolate covered one along with whatever the hell a _brunoise_ is, plopping them both into his mouth at the same time.

Eames makes a low, pleasured noise.

“Oh bloody fuck,” he says, grabbing the same combination again and closing his lips around it. “Arthur, I insist, I really do. You have to try this.”

Arthur is still unimpressed, but he does it.

The chocolate slides over his tongue, followed by a thin scrape of salt. When he bites down, the berries open up, bringing a bright flavor into play with the rich salted chocolate. It’s sweet and tart and lingering.

Arthur’s eyes flicker shut. Despite his best attempts to stop it, he lets out an involuntary noise much like the one Eames made a second ago.

Eames laughs at him.

“Oh fuck you,” Arthur says, without heat.

He is about to reach for more but Eames is already there, pressing two berries softly to Arthur’s lips. Arthur opens his eyes, parts his mouth.

Eames brushes them over Arthur’s tongue, and Arthur closes his mouth around the berries and Eames’ fingers both. He gives a slow, wet suck, holding Eames’ gaze.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” Eames says.

Arthur smiles, purposely letting his dimples slot into view. His clients always go crazy for that, the dimple thing. 

As if on command, Eames slips a hand across Arthur’s jaw, letting his thumb skim over the dimple on his left cheek. Arthur tips his head toward the pressure, letting the pad of Eames’ thumb sink a bit more possessively into his skin.

Arthur gets a strange sort of satisfaction from this—from knowing what’s next. He likes being able to predict the exact effect a touch, a smile, a bite will have on someone. It’s another kind of research. The things people do, the things they want—it can all be observed and catalogued and filed for later reference.

After so many nights, Arthur has a lot on file to work with.

“Here,” Eames says, letting his hand slide from Arthur’s face as he steps away. “Have some champagne.”

He pours two glasses, hands one to Arthur.

“I appreciate this whole seduction scene you have going on here,” Arthur says, taking a sip to be polite, “but I’m kind of a sure thing.”

Arthur sets his glass down and spreads his hands over the expanse of Eames’ chest.

“Maybe we could just—” Arthur says, thumbing at the top button of Eames’ shirt. 

Eames touches his hands to Arthur’s, stilling them.

“It would be a tragedy to let that champagne warm,” Eames says. He moves to pick up Arthur’s glass for him, but he must sense Arthur’s hesitation, because he stops mid-reach.

“If it’s not to your taste, I can order something else. Or we could go out, I still owe you that meal if you—”

“What do you think is happening here?” Arthur says, trying to sound more amused than annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says. “I wasn’t having you on when I said I don’t do this. I’m not exactly familiar with the standard etiquette of—”

“You could pay me,” Arthur suggests. “That would be a good start.”

“Right,” Eames says. He takes his glass and walks across the room to the briefcase he set by the door. He opens it up, pulling out a smooth leather wallet.

“Remind me, what was—”

“Five hundred,” Arthur says, without hesitation. He normally gets two hundred, but Eames doesn’t need to know that.

Arthur watches him draw five crisp bills out of the wallet.

“There you are,” Eames says, walking over and handing it to him.

“Thanks.”

“So,” Eames asks, “does this mean food and drink is still out of the question, or can we continue on?”

“As impressive as the leaning tower of strawberries is, I think it’d be best if we just get to it.”

Arthur knows he’s coming dangerously close to scolding his client, but this is getting ridiculous. He can’t stay here for hours just to make Eames feel a little more like this is a date and a little less like he’s paying for sex.

“I’m sensing that my preference to take things slow is bothering you.”

“There is just no point,” Arthur says.

What Arthur should probably do is rip off Eames’ pants to shut him up—or at least sink back into the come-hither character he usually wears flawlessly on a job like this. For whatever reason, Eames keeps making him shed it, pulling out too much of the real Arthur.

Eames takes a breath, his brow collapsed in thought.

“Arthur,” he says, after a minute, “I have a proposal.”

Arthur folds his arms.

“What?”

“Stay the night.”

“I can’t do that,” Arthur says immediately. Arthur _doesn’t_ do that.

“I would pay you for your time, of course. How much for the entire night?”

“To stay here?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“No, with the elevator man,” Eames says. “Christ, Arthur. Yes, with me.”

“You couldn’t afford it.”

“Try me, darling.”

Arthur pauses, seriously considering what dollar amount would make him break a rule that solid.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Arthur says, mostly to insult Eames.

“Done.”

Arthur blinks. Then blinks again.

 _“_ You—what _?”_

“One condition,” Eames interrupts. He takes a step closer, lifting a hand to comb his fingers through Arthur’s hair almost curiously.

“I—okay,” Arthur blurts. 

“Don’t play a part with me.”

“What do you—”

“I know about feigning a character, Arthur. Pretending to be a person you’re not is something of a—specialty of mine, shall we say. And forgive me if I’m being overly presumptuous, but I don’t think glitter is your preference.”

“What are you saying?” Arthur asks.

Eames lets out a heavy rattle of a sigh. “I spend all my time with people who only tell me what I bloody want to hear, and it’s shit,” Eames says. “Be rude to me if you like. I don’t care, Arthur, all I’m asking is that you don’t feed me whatever tart act your admittedly impressive outfit was designed around.”

“How do you know that’s not me?” Arthur challenges, pissed at Eames for presuming he knows what kind of person Arthur is or isn’t.  

“Because I saw you,” Eames says, stepping nearer, “when you drove that car like it was on fire.”

Arthur swallows.

“And before that, when you thought I was bloody stalking you and you yelled at me.”

“I did not yell at you.”

“You did,” Eames insists. “It was brilliant. No one yells at me.”

“Wait—you have to be kidding.”

“I’m not. People are terribly polite to me all the time, it’s awful.”

“No, I mean—kidding about the money.”

“If you accept my condition, then no, I’m not.”

“Let me make sure I’m getting this,” Arthur says, trying to strike absolute clarity. “You’ll pay me ten thousand dollars to stay here with you for one night, provided I don’t bullshit you?”

“That’s the basic idea, yes.”

“And you’re not paying me that money to perform some complex and sadistic sex act that you’re going to reveal half way through this?”

“Arthur, Jesus Christ—”

“Answer the question.”

“Of course not," Eames says. "Though any entirely standard acts in your repertoire would be welcome whenever the night takes us there.”

“You’re really serious about this.”

“Entirely.”

Arthur takes a long, measured look at Eames, trying to figure out if there is an angle here he’s missing.

“If it helps put you at ease,” Eames says, crossing the room and kneeling down in front of a dark wood cabinet, “let’s take care of logistics first.” He opens the cabinet to reveal a small safe. He punches a code into the keypad and unlocks it with a metallic lurch.

Arthur watches him sift through the contents and pull out a thick stack of bills held together with one of those paper bands, straight from the bank. It’s the kind of thing you see in mob films, stacks like that stuffed into titanium suitcases or piled onto backroom poker tables.

“Are you some sort of gangster?” Arthur asks.

Eames chokes on his champagne. 

“It pains me to tell you,” he says, somewhere between a laugh and a cough, “that this money was obtained legally. Though I did nick a pen earlier in the day with absolutely no intention of giving it back.”

“I’m scandalized.”

“I knew you would be,” he says, closing the safe and walking over to Arthur with the neat stack of bills.

“That’s five thousand,” Eames says, handing it to him. “You’re welcome to take that and leave any time you like. If you do stay the night, I’ll pay you the rest of what we agreed tomorrow morning. Are those terms acceptable?”

Arthur is dumbstruck by the weight of the bills in his hand. He skims his thumb over the stack, finding himself unable to think anything more eloquent than _holy fucking shit_.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, his voice coming out a little cracked at the edges. “Yeah, that’s. Yeah. It’s a deal.”

Eames smiles, wide and easy and appealingly crooked-toothed, and Arthur finds himself returning it without thinking.   

“So,” Arthur asks, after placing the stack of bills carefully inside his bag, “what now?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Anything?”

Eames pauses, as if considering how this might go wrong.

“Anything,” he agrees, after a minute.

“I want to take a shower in water hot enough to be napalm.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh God—oh fuck— _fuck_ that is so good.”

Arthur is being way too loud. He knows that.

“Fuck. That’s— _fuck_.”

He just can’t seem to stop himself.

“Godddddddddddddd.”

He thinks he might be crying, actually, but it’s hard to tell with the wet spray hitting him from so many directions. There are three showerheads in here. Three.

“ _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck_.”

Arthur could fit his entire bathroom, kitchen, and closet inside of this shower. The size of it, it’s absolutely—well, Arthur wants to say absolutely ridiculous, but right now, with so much blessedly hot water drumming his skin, he can’t say a bad word about it.

“Ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Arthur has no idea how long he’s been in here. He hasn’t been able to push past the pure, blissed-out sensation of it to do anything practical like keep hold of time. He’s just been leaning against the tile, his weight braced on his forearms, his head tipped down under the spray, _feeling it._

It’s only after his skin is raw all over, his fingers far past pruning, that Arthur forces himself to turn off the water and step out.

He dries himself off with a gorgeously soft towel that is, without question, the most expensive thing his naked body has ever touched. He pads across the heated tile, considering the pile of clothes he stripped off, but stops when he spots a robe hanging on the back of the door.

When Arthur walks back into the main room, he sees Eames seated in an armchair by the desk, toying with an envelope but not quite opening it.

“Are those important?” Arthur asks, gesturing to the pile of messages.

“Terribly.”

“Do you need to go through them?”

“Tomorrow,” Eames says, glancing up. 

His glance becomes a stare as he takes in the sight of Arthur—dripping hair, loosely tied robe, the bright flush of his skin.

“Should have tipped me off, you know,” Arthur says.

 “Hmm?”

“Gangsters.” He smiles, leaning against the doorframe.  “They don’t get messages. Not from receptionists, I don’t think.”

“You haven’t checked the bed yet,” Eames says. “There could still be a horsehead lurking.”

“If that’s your way of steering me to the bedroom—”

“So literal, Arthur.”

“What do you do, exactly?” Arthur asks.

“Oh, you know,” Eames says, batting absently at the air. “Business. Bunch of boring, graceless shit, really.”

“It sounds like you hate it.”

“Always have.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Eames looks at him, incisive and sharp, like he can see right to the middle of Arthur.

“Do you do what you do because you have a particular love for it?” Eames asks. His tone is not unkind, just matter-of-fact.

Arthur casts a glance at the floor, pressing his bare toe against the plush carpet. “Not exactly, no.”

“Then we have something in common.”

Arthur wants to take that the wrong way _._ He wants to say _yeah right you rich prick._ He wants to tell Eames he has no idea what he’s talking about. He wants to tell him to fuck off.

But Arthur looks at Eames. He is slumped forward in his chair—tie askew, shoes abandoned, sleeves worked up to the elbows—surrounded by the pale paper clutter of a life he doesn’t seem to like. Arthur thinks of the flaking glitter on the clothes he wore here, a pile of bright chaos crumpled on the damp floor. He thinks of excel sheets and IP addresses and candy-colored condom wrappers and everything littered over his own life.

“Maybe,” Arthur allows.

He walks over to the bar and pours himself a new glass of champagne. “Do you want one?”

“Please,” Eames says.

Arthur brings the bottle over to where Eames is sitting and pours the thin remainder into his glass. He nudges a stack of folders aside with his hip, leaning against the desk.

Eames toys with the too-long tie on Arthur’s robe, flipping the end through his fingers.

“May I ask you a question?” Eames says.

“Yes.”

“Do you have some sort of erotic fixation for other people’s showers?”

Arthur laughs into his glass. “Not usually.”

“Just tonight?”

“Just since my building stopped producing hot water.”

“Christ, how long has that been?” Eames asks.  

Arthur gets hit with something like nausea, a few shades short of panic. He’s never—he doesn’t talk about his life, not with johns. He doesn’t have a rule about it, not exactly, but that’s only because it’s such an obvious thing to never, ever do.

He has to remind himself that he agreed—that he’s getting paid, to do this, to be himself. He swallows down his roiling apprehension and answers.

“It’s—a month, at least. I don’t really remember.”

Eames’ brows pinch together. “You haven’t had any hot water for—”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Arthur, you can’t—”

Arthur presses his fingers to Eames’ lips, stilling them. The touch is light, but it’s enough. Eames goes quiet.

Arthur curves his hand around Eames’ jaw, scraping his thumb over rust-brown stubble. Eames sighs, sinking back into the soft leather of the chair.

Arthur sits his glass down and steps forward. Their legs slot together, Arthur standing and Eames sitting. Arthur slides his knee along the inseam of Eames' pants, pressing closer.

He grips Eames’ tie.

“This,” Arthur says, pulling it taut, “is hideous.”

Eames’ mouth drops open, then closes into a grin. “So cruel, Arthur.” 

Arthur stretches the knot until it’s slack. “You said no bullshit.”

He pulls the loosened tie from Eames’ neck, dropping it to the floor. Eames skims his fingers up Arthur’s leg, tracing behind the bend of his knee.

Arthur slopes forward, both hands on Eames’ shoulders, and settles into his lap. He untucks Eames' shirt from his waistband and pushes up underneath it, his hands sliding between fabric and skin.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks.

“What do you do?”

“Just about everything,” Arthur says. “But I don’t kiss on the mouth.”

“Neither do I.”

Arthur laughs, thumbing at the notches of Eames’ stomach muscles.

“You’re so bloody gorgeous when you do that,” Eames says.

“Do what?”

Eames doesn’t reply, just brushes his knuckles over Arthur’s dimple.

Arthur tries to discard this alongside the thousands of other horny compliments his clients have given him, but something about it must stick. His smile widens under the brush of Eames’ hand, unbidden. He feels stupid for it, but it happens, and he lets it. _No bullshit._

Arthur unclasps Eames’ belt, pulling it free and dropping it to the floor next to the tie. He works open the polished metal buttons on Eames’ shirt, slow and neat. He sees a flash of ink as he goes, then another, another. _Tattoos_ , Arthur notes, peeling Eames’ shirt open. He recognizes a few from the photo Eames sent, but there are more, too many to count. _Interesting._

Eames sips his champagne, watching Arthur’s movements with sharp grey eyes, but not touching him, as if waiting for some sort of permission.  

Arthur frowns, taking the glass out of Eames’ hand. He tips it sideways, dipping two fingers into the flute to wet them. Arthur drifts them over his own skin, leaving a line of champagne from his throat to his sternum. 

Eames watches, his breath falling low and heavy. Arthur sets the glass down and waits.

Eames leans forward, accepting the obvious invitation, but hesitates an inch from Arthur’s skin, looking up one last time as if to say  _you can tell me to stop._

“Eames,” Arthur scolds.

“Never hurts to check, darling,” he murmurs, closing the distance.

Eames mouths at the sharp cut of Arthur’s clavicle, drawing the robe from his shoulders with blunt fingernails. It feels good, Eames’ mouth. His tongue hits the hollow of Arthur’s throat, tracing the champagne, and Arthur hears himself let out a little pleasured hum. _No bullshit, no bullshit, no bullshit._

His hands drop to Arthur’s hips, fingers bunching into the fabric of the robe.

“Can I remove this?” Eames asks, and Arthur almost laughs because the words are so fucking polite but his voice is run raw, like Eames just smoked a pack or maybe three.

“Yes.”

Eames does, closing his fists around the fabric and pulling until the robe spreads open and drops to the floor. 

“Christ,” Eames says, to the air, to himself, “Christ, look at you.” 

Arthur is naked, sitting in a man’s lap, which is nothing remarkable and nothing new, but Eames’ breath fogs out, taking in the sight of him, touching Arthur’s skin like something remarkable did just happen, like it’s a wonder.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks again. He slides his palm over the bulge in Eames’ pants, making his breath trip out in razor-edged stutters.

“I want to feel you,” Eames answers, his hand skimming down Arthur’s back, then lower, a drift of pressure over Arthur’s opening, “I want—”

“Here,” Arthur says, leaning over the side of the armchair to reach into his bag. He pulls out a bottle of lube, hands it Eames.

Eames pops the cap, coats his fingers.

“Tell me if—”

“For fuck’s sake, Eames, I’m not going to break if you—”

Eames pushes one finger into Arthur, straight to the knuckle. A traitorous whine vents from Arthur’s throat.

“Shut up,” he mumbles preemptively, his head lolling back as Eames moves into him more firmly.

“Wasn’t going to say a word,” Eames says, smirking a little.

For all his fussy politeness, Eames is not shy when it comes to this. He works Arthur open with a deftness that borders on expert, making him pull in gasps of embarrassing frequency and volume.

“You’re actually good at this,” Arthur blurts without meaning to. Eames presses in a second finger and Arthur hisses through his teeth, taking it.

“Your condescension is much appreciated Arthur, thank you,” Eames breathes, scissoring his fingers until Arthur can’t say anything else.  

Eames shifts them, aiming for a new angle. He hits it just right, managing a third finger while thrumming Arthur’s prostate with relentless pressure. It’s too much, maybe, but Arthur can’t stop himself from making these greedy torn-up noises, from arching his back into it.

“These—off, ” Arthur says after a minute, clawing ineffectually at Eames’ pants. 

“If you insist,” Eames says, undoing the zipper with one hand while continuing to skim inside Arthur with the other.

Arthur can reach out just enough to drag them down, forcing Eames’ pants to bunch inelegantly at his thighs. He shoves Eames’ underwear aside and draws out his cock.

As cocks go, Arthur has seen every kind—huge, tiny, skinny, curved, cut, uncut, pale, pierced, everything. He’s had the misfortune of encountering dicks that looked small and shriveled and angry, others that were veined, purple monstrosities. Most often, Arthur is presented with ones that are entirely unremarkable, much like the johns that accompany them. 

Eames’ cock, if you ask Arthur, is one of the nicer ones.

“ _Christ_ ,” Eames chokes out as Arthur grips around him. With Eames still working him open, Arthur is not exactly performing at his best. His strokes are messy and odd-angled, no rhythm to any of it.

Eames pulls his fingers away and Arthur rasps out a whine he didn’t know was waiting in his throat. “Arthur, do you have a—”

“Yes, yeah,” Arthur says, leaning over the side of the armchair for his bag. He pulls out a condom, rips it open, and rolls it onto Eames.

They both fumble for the lube, dripping it over Eames' cock without much finesse. Arthur shifts, shoving Eames further down into the chair to position his body at a better angle. He tips up onto his knees and grips Eames’ cock, lining himself up against it.

“Arthur, wait—are you—”

 _You don’t have to ask,_ Arthur wants to shout _. Don’t pretend this is more than what it is._

“You don’t have to do this if you—” Eames tries, holding Arthur at the hips, “I’ll still pay you, you don’t need to—”

“Shut up, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, easing down onto him. Eames lets out all the air in his lungs.

Arthur shuts his eyes and shakes out a sigh, steadying himself as he bottoms out. Eames groans and presses his hips up, like he’s trying to chase down every spare inch of space between them.

Arthur rides Eames, working his hips in swift, practiced motions. This draws an impressive run of swear words out of him, a blurred mix of English, Spanish, French, Italian, and a few other things Arthur doesn’t even recognize.

“I feel like I’m fucking the UN Security Council,” Arthur blurts, slamming himself down onto Eames. If this were a normal night, a normal client, Arthur would be mewling like a fucking kitten right now, blabbing bullshit about _what a_ _huge cock_ and _oh baby it feels so good_ and _give me more harder faster deeper whatever._ But Eames didn’t want an act.

Eames just laughs, the sound stuttering to a moan as Arthur decelerates the rhythm. He lifts up one inch at a time, then eases back down, a slow slide against Eames’ cock. Arthur repeats, and repeats, and repeats.

Arthur prefers this, a slower pace. He rarely gets to do it—no one ever wants it—but Eames doesn’t seem to mind. It turns Arthur on, feeling the easy sink and rise of his body against someone else. Arthur’s cock is getting painfully hard from it, from having the heat of Eames everywhere at once, slow and uncomplicated.

Eames mouths at the hard line of Arthur’s sternum, his tongue a scrape of hot velvet over skin. He floats his fingers up Arthur’s spine, notch by notch, luxuriating in the easy pace of things.

“Fuck,” Arthur exhales between his teeth, feeling all of it.

Eames reaches up, sweeping aside the hair sticking to Arthur’s forehead, combing it from his eyes.

“God, you are beautiful,” Eames lets out. Arthur shuts his eyes and—for one impractical, reckless second—believes it.    

Eames reaches down and fists Arthur’s cock for three strokes, four, five, and he’s gone. He cries out, coming all over Eames’ chest. It must send Eames over the edge because his hips kick up in a series of stammered thrusts, his fingers digging into Arthur’s ribs. He swears in what Arthur thinks is Portuguese and then melts into the chair like he’s boneless.

They pant unevenly for a minute, Arthur still seated on top of Eames, recovering.

“I have to ask,” Arthur says, trying to catch his breath. “Was it worth all the gangster money you gave me?” 

Eames smiles, lazy and sated and sweet.

“Every penny.”

 

 

***

 

 

“You have never seen The Matrix? The bloody _Matrix_?”

“I don’t exactly—”

“Arthur—”

“Free time is not really something—”

“Arthur, you _cannot_ be serious—”

“Could you please shut up and pass me the goat cheese?”

Eames passes it, but does not shut up.

“This is just impossible to—how old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I plainly, truly cannot wrap my head around the notion of a twenty-two year old American male having not see the bloody fucking Matrix. I’m sorry, Arthur, it’s just not—”

Arthur shoves an apple slice smothered in goat cheese between Eames’ lips.

“Ve are bixing dthis!” Eames says, full-mouthed and barely comprehensible. He reaches for a TV remote that looks complicated enough to be a flight control panel.

They’re spread out on the bed in the master suite, a fresh pile of room service in front of them. They’re sitting crossed-legged, Arthur in a borrowed T-shirt and boxers, Eames bare-chested but wearing a pair of stuffy British pajama bottoms that Arthur is amazed do not come with a buttflap (“We would _never_. That is a distinctly American accouterment,” Eames tells him, after Arthur voices this observation). 

“They must have it,” Eames says, his face pinched in concentration as he scrutinizes the pay-per-view menu. “It is a bloody modern classic, it has got to be—ah ha!”

Eames clicks, and a wobbly green Warner Brothers logo fills the screen.

“Hit the lights, would you?”

“The remote doesn’t do that too?” Arthur asks, already getting up.

“It might actually,” Eames says, clearing the plates off of the bed. “Never bothered to check.”

Arthur flips the switch, leaving the room dark except for the hazy green glow of the television.

“Come,” Eames says, shifting back onto the pillows and patting the spot next to him.

Arthur climbs into the bed and settles next to Eames. Eames throws an arm around him, his thumb lazily tracing the arc between Arthur’s neck and shoulder.

Arthur is not one for cuddling. To be completely specific, he’s never done it in his life. He hasn’t had anything remotely resembling a relationship—which is where he assumes that kind of thing generally happens—and he’s never had the kind of friendship with anyone that included snuggling. So he’s just—never done it. He didn’t think it would really be his style, anyway.

But there is something about the soft inviting heat of Eames next to him. It feels simple, safe to give in to.

Arthur leans his head back experimentally, tipping it onto Eames’ shoulder. Eames vents a drowsy sigh, pulling him closer and hooking a leg over Arthur’s under the blankets.

 _“I imagine, Neo, that right now you’re feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole?”_ is the last thing Arthur hears, slipping to sleep. 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur wakes up feeling amazing, which is the first sign something is off.

He nuzzles into a drenchingly soft pillow, not sure how his horrible bed was transformed overnight into a feathery den of miraculous comfort, but he’ll take it.

He drifts out of sleep, then back into it, a wave lapping lazily at consciousness.

Things start to trickle in—the sound of a tap running, the bright slide of daylight, the impossibly perfect smell of bacon. He tries to hold on to some of it, to grip into wakefulness, but it’s a tough thing to manage when Arthur has, very seriously, never been so comfortable in his life.

A voice bleeds into the air, catching his attention. It sounds far away, muted by distance or by Arthur’s sleep-drunk hearing, but it’s familiar.

That’s when things start to add up—the voice, the sounds, the bizarrely comfortable bed. Arthur isn’t in his apartment. He’s—

“Yes, I’m sure he is very put out… we’re gutting the whole bloody company, what did you expect… think he’d send us a vase?”

Eames.

It’s Eames’ voice. And that means Arthur—

“Fuck _,_ ” Arthur mutters under his breath, digging out from the plush comforter. Arthur must have slept in. He _never_ —he has no idea how—he _never_ sleeps late, it’s just not—

“Tonight? What would be the point, we’re…  no, there’s no harm in it, but a dinner isn’t…”

Arthur probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but there is nothing for him to do but sit there. Eames is in the ensuite bathroom, talking on the phone and shaving, it sounds like, from the faint motorized hum Arthur hears through the half-open door. The only other place Arthur could go is the main room, but if he wandered in there alone it might seem like he was snooping, or something worse. And all of his clothes are in the bathroom, so he can’t even busy himself with getting dressed.

His only option is to stay put.

He lies back, feigning sleep, figuring he can pretend to wake whenever Eames comes back into the room.

“Fine, I’m happy to do it if it neatens thing up… yes, casual is best, though casual for him is probably… bloody hell… yes, 8 o’clock.”

There is a pause, and then Eames laughs.

“Much as I appreciate it, Yusuf, I’m set on that account… I have someone with me… no, not the one from Paris, you don’t know him... I am _not_ going to make a spectacle with… honestly, have I ever… well, that was just the once, and you have to admit it was a very nice pair of…  all right, cheers.”

Eames hangs up, or Arthur thinks he does—the only sound he hears now is the electric whine of the razor. The conversation didn’t make any sense to him, but then again, it wasn’t supposed to.

It strikes Arthur just how foreign all of this is—waking up in someone else’s bed, hearing them shower and shave and laugh in the next room. It’s not a picture he’s ever been a part of, some domestic scene. Arthur has no compass for it.

He should be gone. He has no idea why Eames hasn’t kicked him out yet, unless Eames was planning to take Arthur for round two, which—considering how much he paid—is obviously understandable, and Arthur is willing to do it. He just wants them to get on with it. There is no reason why Eames couldn’t have woken him up for that a long time ago instead of letting Arthur sleep in like this.

He knows that Eames paid, technically, for him to stay the night—but Arthur figured he’d be rushed out first thing in the morning, probably by a butler or a personal assistant or whoever it is that cleans up the Arthur-sized indiscretions of the very rich.

It makes him uncomfortable, lingering here like they’re lovers or something.

“Arthur?” Eames says quietly. Arthur feels the bed dip beside him. A warm palm slides up his back and lands in his hair at the nape.

“Hmmm?” Arthur answers, trying to sound like he’s just lifting from sleep.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Eames says. “But I have to leave in a few minutes, and I wanted to speak with you first.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, scrubbing a hand over his face and sitting up.

He looks at Eames. He is shaved, showered, dressed, impeccable. Arthur probably looks like someone just ran over him with a truck, his hair splayed out in fifty directions. He doesn’t even have a toothbrush here.

“Come,” Eames says, standing up and tugging Arthur out of bed.

Arthur is a little uneven on his feet, both from the sudden standing up and the sex-sore muscles, but he follows Eames all the same.

“Is there any prayer of coffee,” Arthur dares to ask, “because I would do unspeakable things for—”

“As much as I’d love for you to finish that sentence, let me put you out of your misery straightaway.”

Eames walks him over to the dining table, which is set with a half-dozen silver trays. He lifts the covers off of each of them, revealing a spread of fruit, pastries, eggs, waffles, bacon, pancakes, yogurt, and a glorious platter of hot coffee and tea.

“I didn’t know what you’d like, so I took the liberty of ordering everything on the menu,” Eames says, like that’s a completely normal thing to do.

“Holy shit.”

“It’s nothing,” Eames adds breezily, like it really isn’t. “Sit down, eat something with me so we can talk.”

“About what?” Arthur asks, pouring coffee and pulling apart a croissant.

“I have a business proposition for you.”

Arthur feels something thrum under his skin. He can’t place it as apprehension or excitement.

“I’m going to be in Los Angeles for five more days,” Eames says, plopping walnuts into his yogurt. “I want you to stay with me while I’m here.”

“You—what are you talking about?” Arthur asks.

“I’m in LA because I’m closing a deal—a rather complicated one that I’ve been working on for some time. It’s done, or nearly just, but there are some events this week while we tie things up. Bunch of self-congratulatory bullshit—parties, luncheons, that kind of thing. It’ll be deathly boring, but these things always go better when I take someone with me. And I was just informed about a dinner tonight, so there’s that as well.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says. “I’m not an escort, I don’t know anything about what you do, I just—people hire me by the hour. I’m only good for—”

“I know what you do, Arthur,” Eames says briskly. “I also know you’re clever and sharp and lovely to look at, which is the entire set of requirements necessary for someone to accompany me to these things. I also suspect—despite our, ah, flavored lubricant improv show at the elevators last night—that you are excellent at discretion when you want to be.”

“Of course I am,” Arthur says, scowling as he chews. His entire life is built around the silent capture and safekeeping of information. That’s what he _does_.

Eames smiles, amused at Arthur’s irritation. 

“Thought as much,” he says, tossing a walnut into his mouth.

“But I don’t get it. Why?”

“I just explained—”

“Why are you hiring _anyone_?" Arthur asks. "You’re a rich, good-looking guy. You could get a million dates for free.” 

Eames narrows his eyes, deepens his smirk.

“Arthur,” Eames says, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Did you just give me a _compliment_?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Arthur says, wrestling down a smile.

“My debonair, handsome, gorgeous, _good-looking_ head?”

“I don’t like you.”

“You do,” Eames says, gulping down the last of his tea. “And the truth of the matter is, I like you too, Arthur. That’s why I’m asking you. It might make me sound like a terrible idiot, but last night was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. And not just because of the, uh—how did you put it?”

Arthur shrugs.

“Not just because of the—filthy gangster money sex?” Eames offers.

“I don’t think I referred to it as ‘filthy’. But yes.”

“Nomenclature aside,” Eames says, “that particular part of the night was, obviously, very nice—but your scary driving was also a highlight. And your abuse of my sartorial choices.”

“I hope you know the first condition of this deal is going to be that you burn that tie.”

“So,” Eames catches—too fast, too sharp—“there is going to be a deal?”

“I don’t know. What terms are you offering?”

Eames leans forward, his smirk melting into something else. “I find hard-boiled negotiations very sexy, you know.”

“I think you need to forward terms before someone is technically negotiating with you.” 

“I also find technicalities very sexy.”

“What is wrong with you? Do you do this in board meetings?”

“I don’t normally have gorgeous sex-rumpled brunettes sporting my underwear in front of me in board meetings,” Eames says. “So, no.”

“Do we need to stop and have sex right now for you to talk to me like a normal person again?”

“Arthur—are we now having a sexy negotiation about having sex? Because I may faint.”

“Is this like, a tactic of yours?” Arthur asks. “To annoy your marks so much they give all their ground and let you win before negotiations even start?”

“Knew you were clever,” Eames says, sitting back and biting into a strip of bacon.

Despite all of his attempts to stop it, Arthur smiles. He swallows down a scalding mouthful of coffee to hide the fact.

Eames sees anyway. 

“Knew you liked me,” he hums.

Arthur tips back sharply in his chair, making a point to glare at Eames as he takes another bite of his croissant. Eames nudges a foot against one of his suspended chair legs, forcing Arthur to throw himself forward with an inelegant lurch.

Eames smiles. Arthur glares with renewed force.

“I am starting to see, actually, why getting your own dates might be a problem.”

“Has anyone ever told you, Arthur, that you’re adorable when irritable?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re not as charming as you think you are?”

“Not once. Now—terms,” Eames says, sinking into a tone of voice that Arthur recognizes as all business. “I want you to stay with me for the rest of the week. That’s five days and four nights. I will pay all of your expenses while you’re here and will give you your—pre-negotiated daily rate, let’s call it. That’s fifty thousand, to stay the week. What do you say?”

Arthur feels his throat dry up. _Fifty thousand goddamn dollars._

It’s too good. It has to be. Arthur knows better than to believe that things like this happen to people like him.

“What do you—” Arthur tries, needing to get the question out. “What, exactly, are you expecting from me, if I stay here with you?”

Eames seems like a good guy. He does. But Arthur’s known a lot of guys who seemed good once. There has to be some sort of catch—some nefarious underbelly to the thing. This is the part where Eames is going to tell Arthur the whole deal rests on the condition that he sleeps in a sex cage while Eames masturbates to Slovenian pornography.

It _has_ to be.

“I expect,” Eames answers, “for you to attend these events with me. I expect you to read up on the buyout so you know the players and are informed of what’s happening. I expect you to dress smartly and make everyone in the room terribly jealous of me. I expect you to be clever and biting as you already are. And I expect to say goodbye to you at the end of these five days and head back to London with a deal done and nothing left for me to think about stateside.”

Eames pauses.

“I like you Arthur, very much. I already told you so. But don’t mistake me—I’m hiring you because you’re a professional. I’m not looking for any romantic entanglements to muddy up this week for me. That’s why this arrangement is so appealing.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What about at night?” Arthur asks, still trying to dig around for a catch, for whatever he must be missing. “When it’s just the two of us. What are you expecting then?”

Eames hesitates. Arthur can feel some of that fussy politeness sink back into him.

“I have no interest in you doing anything you don’t want to do, if that’s what you’re asking,” Eames says. “If we eat room service or have extraordinarily good sex or watch American action films or go out driving so you can try to kill us on Mulholland again—any or none of the above—then that’s what we do. I’ll leave that up to you.”

“You can’t be that noble,” Arthur accuses. “No one is that noble. You’re paying me an absurd amount of money to be here all night, every night, with you, and it’s my job to fuck people who pay me. But you’re telling me I don’t even have to do that if I don't—what, if I don’t feel like it?”

Eames looks at him, his face crumpled with unease.

“I wasn’t lying, Arthur, when I told you I don’t know how this sort of thing works. I am bound to be shit at it," Eames says. "But that doesn’t change the fact that, payment or no, I would never go to bed with someone who didn’t choose to be there. I hope that doesn’t make me noble.”

“You’d be surprised,” Arthur says, maybe more darkly than he means to. “This is a first for me.”

“Well, I can assure you this is the very first time someone has accused me of being _noble_.” Eames says it as though the word has a sour taste. “My mother would be terribly pleased though.”

“She’d be pleased that a hooker you picked up on Hollywood Boulevard called you noble?”

“Now, Arthur, really. Let’s be precise,” Eames says. “I picked you up on the _internet_. Entirely different affair. Makes me look quite clever, really. Tech-savvy.”

Arthur smiles. He hates how easily Eames can coax those out of him, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

“So tell me—”

Eames leans forward.

“—do we have a deal then?”

Arthur thinks there is a distinct possibility he may end up regretting this.

“Yes,” he says, all the same.

“Brilliant! I have some things for you—” Eames says, walking across the room to retrieve a binder and a thick brown envelope he’d already prepared, clearly unconcerned that Arthur might’ve said no to his proposal. He dumps them onto the dining table with an indelicate thud.

“This,“ Eames says, pointing out the binder, “is a copy of the case file. Deathly boring, but you’ll want to read it. And this is a phone for you while you’re—”

“I have a phone.”

“Yes, but I already know the number for this one, you see,” Eames says, picking it up and wagging it in the air. “Very convenient that way. Take it please?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but does. Eames pushes two small plastic cards toward him.

“This is a room key for you, and this is a credit card to buy clothes or whatever else you’ll—”

“Clothes?”

“Yes. You’ll need quite a lot of clothes for the week, I’m afraid. Suits, mostly, though you should also get something for the pool because god knows someone is always forcing water polo on—”

“You want me to go out and buy suits?”

“Yes. And very expensive ones, if possible. There is no time for anything bespoke but if you go to Rodeo you should be able to—”

“Who are people going to think I am, exactly? Like a colleague or something?”

“Ah—no. Not exactly.”

Eames bites the inside of his cheek, a smile fighting it’s way across his features.

“The thing is, Arthur—I have a bit of a reputation.”

Arthur lifts his eyebrows.

“A reputation for what?”

“I think the phrase _‘prodigious lothario’_ was floated somewhere recently. Doesn’t matter, point is, they’ll just assume you’re my—”

“Flavor of the week?” Arthur suggests, catching on.

“Something like that,” Eames confirms, scratching the back of his neck and not quite looking at Arthur. 

“At least no one will wonder why I appeared out of nowhere.”

“Precisely. Though they _will_ start to wonder if you show up wearing anything other than the most egregiously expensive clothes my money could buy you, so please do spend accordingly. Frugality will not do us any favors.”

“Trust me,” Arthur says, examining the shiny black tint of the plastic, “that won’t be a problem.”

“Oh good,” Eames says. “One last thing—”

He slides a small, square piece of paper toward Arthur.

“Don’t crash her, please. We may not be fond of each other as yet, but I don’t wish her any harm all the same.”

It’s a valet ticket.

“Eames—” Arthur says. “Why the hell are you giving me this?”

“You’ll need a car to get out to the shops, won’t you? Besides, after the way you two got on, I’m sure she’s been sitting in that sad little parking garage thinking about you all night. It’d be cruel not to take her out.”

“But—how are you—“

“I will be driving my slightly less grand but far more dependable Aston Martin, as I know it does not wish death upon me.”

“Eames—what the _hell_ is wrong with you? How do you know I’m not going to just steal this car and head for the border?”

Eames levels a look at him.

“Arthur, honestly,” Eames says. “Both the car and the credit card have a terrifying number of protections on them that would make it impossible for you to cross state lines or even buy a stick of gum without my knowing. But that’s entirely beside the point.”

Eames presses the ticket into Arthur’s palm.

“The fact is, Arthur, you and I are going to have to trust one another.”

Eames stands up, turning to grab his jacket from the back of the chair, but Arthur stops him, gripping him hard at the wrist.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Arthur asks, an edge to his voice like cut glass.

Eames looks at him as though it’s a trick question. “What do you mean?”

Arthur stares at the valet ticket, at the credit card, at the breakfast spread out in front of him— _every fucking thing on the menu_ —and thinks about being allowed to sleep in so late, about ridiculous champagne and ridiculous strawberries, about how Eames never touched him without permission.

“Why are you—” Arthur’s voice stalls out. He feels overexposed, skinless all of the sudden.

Eames lifts Arthur’s fingers from his wrist, but doesn’t drop them. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur blinks, regarding the strange sight of his hand being held in someone else’s.

“Sorry for what?”

“For whatever happened to make you think a person being part-way decent to you is some sort of trick.”

Eames brushes his thumb over the back of Arthur’s hand, slow and deliberate, like the leaving of a mark. It’s nothing—it’s less than nothing. It’s three seconds of contact. But it’s probably the most intimate way Arthur’s been touched.

He feels something spiky and unwelcome lump in his throat. He shoves it down.

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, retracting his hand. “Habit.”

Eames doesn’t press Arthur for more information, or for anything at all. He just smiles, generous with his affection even when Arthur is stingy with his own, and Arthur feels so irrationally grateful in that moment—for that smile, for not having to earn it or reciprocate it, but just getting to have it.

“I think that’s everything,” Eames says. “Dinner is at 8 o’clock, so I’ll come back around 7 to get you. Be dressed?”

“To the nines,” Arthur promises. 

“Maybe you can show me whatever you think a proper tie is then. I am entirely unconvinced you have the faintest clue, seeing as you—”

“Aren’t you late for something?”

“Perpetually,” Eames says, grabbing his briefcase and pocketing his cell. “Have a wonderful day, darling, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—”

Eames winks, letting the door fall closed behind him. 

  

 


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur, ever the list-maker, tries to plan out an orderly progression to the day.

He needs to read the case file (which may involve some additional research, if he finds it unclear or incomplete), he needs to go shopping (which could be simple or could be an ordeal—he has no idea), he needs to shower and shave and get dressed (which will take a while if he wants to luxuriate in the hot water again), he needs to stop by his apartment to get his laptop and give Ari back her—

Ari.

_Ari._

“SHIT,” Arthur says out loud, already running. He throws open the bathroom door, whips around, and spots his pile of clothes on the floor. He dives down onto them, clawing for his cell phone. He finds it, wrestles it out of the pocket of his jeans, but it’s—

It’s out of power. It’s out of power, and that means Arthur is _fucked_. He's got the phone Eames gave him, but that's no help without Ariadne's number. Arthur feels like a complete ass for never having memorized it. It's seven fucking numbers. And he has no way to charge this phone or to get Ari’s number out of it right now, so he is going to have to—

 _“Fuck,”_ Arthur says feelingly, throwing on his wrinkled clothes as fast as possible. He runs into the main room, grabs his bag, opens it wide, and uses one arm to sweep everything Eames gave him off of the table and into it.

“Shit shit _shit,”_ Arthur mutters, bolting out of the room toward the elevator. He smashes the ‘DOWN’ button again and again, hoping the mad staccato of finger-to-glass has the power to draw the elevator to the top floor more quickly.

After a decade, a century, a millennium, it arrives. 

Arthur bolts inside.

“Lobby. THE LOBBY!”

“Y-yes—of course, _right away,_ sir—” the elevator attendant stutters at him, wide-eyed. Arthur takes a second to consider just how unhinged he must look, but decides he doesn’t have the time to properly feel bad about it right now. Instead, he spends the agonizingly slow elevator ride considering all the things Ari might have done. He tries to imagine what would’ve gone through her head—what conclusions she must have come to after hours went by and Arthur never contacted her and never came home.

Arthur has never been _so_ _fucking stupid._

How could he have forgotten to do something as simple as text her? He tries to run the events of last night back in his mind—Eames almost running him over with the car, Eames letting him drive, Eames helping him horrify those people in the lobby, Eames feeding him ridiculous strawberries, Eames fucking him slow and warm, Eames making him laugh, Eames ordering room service, Eames putting on a movie, Eames pulling him under the covers, Eames falling asleep on him, Eames, Eames, _Eames_ —

“FUCKING EAMES,” Arthur says out loud. If Eames hadn’t been so _goddamn_ —Arthur wants to fill in an adjective here, a really fucking eviscerating one, but all he can come up with are words like ‘ _charming’_ and _‘interesting’_ and ‘ _nice’—_ if Eames hadn’t been so _goddamn nice_ , Arthur wouldn’t have—

“Fuck,” Arthur says, all the anger draining out of him.

It’s not Eames’ fault. It’s his.

He hangs his head in his hands. It’s completely, entirely his own fault. He was so caught up in the thrill of everything that he forgot about her—about the one person who actually gives a shit about him, and who he actually gives a shit about in return. Not that he’d ever tell her that, but it’s the _truth_ , it’s the fucking truth, and that makes Arthur _such an asshole._

The attendant seems to be inching further and further away from him in the small space of the elevator, pressing himself almost entirely into the corner to keep away from Arthur. 

Arthur doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t want to be near himself right now either.

The worst thing—the _worst_ _thing_ —would be if Ari had gone to the police. Arthur is sure she would’ve had the best intentions, but considering that his occupation is very much illegal, it wouldn’t turn out well for him. He’s hoping she’s seen those CSI episodes where the police tell you they can’t do anything about a missing person for 48 hours.

But he’s wrong, really, to say that’s the worst thing.

The worst thing—the absolute worst thing that could have happened—is a thing he can’t even bring himself to think about.

The worst thing is that she might’ve—that she could have gone to that hotel, the one where he was supposed to be—that Arthur could have been wrong about Number 39 being boring, being safe—that he could have—that, right now, she could be—

The elevator doors open and Arthur sprints across the lobby, hurdle-jumping over a chair and dodging a leashed poodle.

He whips out the door and slams the square piece of paper onto the valet desk.

“THE CAR. NOW.” Arthur shouts, not bothering to waste time with even a scrap of politeness.

The valet—unlike the elevator attendant—does not seem afraid of Arthur. He seems suspicious and almost bored by the fact.

“This is for your car?” he says, glancing at the ticket and then at Arthur, looking him up and down. “The Lamborghini?” His voice dripping with derision. “Really?”

“Look, asshole,” Arthur says, “This is a valet ticket. You’re a fucking valet. _Get the fucking car.”_

The valet gives him a tight smile.  He picks up the phone.

“Need security at Valet 1. Thank you.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? This is for my car, you motherfu—“

The valet stares him down.

“I mean, it’s not _my_ car, it’s my—”

How the fuck can he explain this?

“—ever heard of Eames? _Mr. Fucking Eames?_ The guy staying in the fucking _Presidential Suite_? Because he is going to be royally pissed that you held me up with your smartass fucking remarks, so can you just get the—”

“Can I help you?” says a cool voice behind him.

Arthur whips around, ready to start in on whoever this new asshole is, but the man is standing there, tall and tidy in a neat blue suit, with three colossal security guards flanking him.

“Yeah, you—” Arthur starts, trying to find a way to sound less unhinged so he doesn’t get tasered or something. “Your _valet_ ,” Arthur chews on the word, “is being deeply unhelpful, and this is an emergency. I have my ticket and I need my car. Right now.”

“You’re a guest here?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Well, I’m with a guest.”

“And this is your car—or the guest’s car?”

“It’s his car. But he left it for me, and I need—”

“Why don’t you come with me and we can sort this out.”

“I can’t fucking go with you! I told you, this an _emergency_ , I need—”

The guards move in a step closer and Arthur takes a breath, trying to keep it together.

“Fine,” he says. “Can we hurry, please?”

“Of course,” Mr. Blue Suit says, gesturing for Arthur to follow him. They walk across the lobby into a small but sumptuously decorated office.

“Stay here,” the man says to the guards, and closes the door. He gestures for Arthur to sit down in the chair across from him.

“This is completely ridiculous, by the way, so can we just—”

“What’s your name?” Mr. Blue Suit asks him, calm and unhurried.

“What do you want it to be?” Arthur answers in a flat voice.

Mr. Blue Suit doesn’t say anything, just narrows his eyes at Arthur.

“Arthur. My name is Arthur.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Arthur. My name is Mr. Charles. I’m head of security at this hotel.”

“Congratulations.”

Mr. Charles smiles at Arthur in that particular way you smile at someone you don’t like.

“You said you’re staying here with a guest?”

“Yes.”

“And who is the guest you’re staying with?” He squints at Arthur.  

This would probably be a good time to know Eames’ first name.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur chances, hoping he’ll seem like he’s going for formality rather than demonstrating a lack of information.

Mr. Charles leans back in his chair, and his entire face changes. His cool exterior melts into something like amusement.

“This is all making a lot more sense to me now,” Mr. Charles says, smiling at Arthur in a completely different way than he was a minute ago.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, normally, when a guest of this hotel has someone staying with them—particularly when this someone needs to have access to amenities and properties belonging to the guest—we expect our guest to sign this person in.”

“And Eames didn’t?”

“Eames never does,” says Mr. Charles. “I can’t tell if it’s a protest against protocol or something he does specifically to annoy me.”

“Either one sounds like him,” Arthur mumbles, wanting to be mad at Eames for his ridiculous behavior but finding it sort of charming.

“Sorry to delay you, but I still have to call him before I can give you access to the vehicle. Should only take a second.”

Mr. Charles walks over to his phone, which is attached to—

“Fuck, is that a charger? For a blackberry?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my fucking god, can I just—” Arthur runs over, rips Mr. Charles’ phone unceremoniously from the cord, and shoves his own onto the thing. Arthur’s cell is ancient, but it actually fits this charger, which is a fucking miracle.

He waits a few seconds until it says it’s charging and then pushes the power button. The moment the screen comes alive, he scrolls to Ariadne’s number and hits 'CALL', praying that she is okay, that she answers, that she is—

“ARTHUR, IF YOU ARE NOT DEAD, YOU ARE ABOUT TO BE.”

Arthur laughs out loud in a surge of happiness, but realizes immediately this is the wrong response. Ari starts screeching at him, and he has to hold the phone a foot from his ear while she lets it all out.

“Sorry,” he mouths silently to Mr. Charles.

Mr. Charles nods toward Arthur in a soundless gesture of, _don’t worry, go ahead._ He steps out of the office with his own phone, probably to call Eames.

Eventually the volume of Ariadne’s insults seems to lower, and Arthur takes a chance and inches the phone closer to his ear.

“—DESERVE TO BE DRAWN-AND-QUARTERED AFTER PULLING A STUNT LIKE THAT. JESUS H. CHRIST, ARTHUR, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? ALIENS BETTER HAVE ABDUCTED YOU. REALLY HORRIBLE ALIENS. I AM TALKING LIKE THE ALIENS FROM THE MOVIE ‘ALIEN’, NOT THE NICE ‘E.T.’ TYPE OF—”

“ARIADNE!” Arthur shouts.

“DON’T!” Ari says immediately. “DON’T EVEN TRY TO FUCKING TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF THIS, ARTHUR EUGENE WEST, DON’T EVEN BEGIN TO—”

Arthur sincerely regrets ever letting Ari see a piece of his mail.

“ARI!” he tries again. “I’m fucking sorry, okay! And I won’t try to talk my way out of this because I _know_ I was a complete asshole and that you have every right to want to kill me and I _know_ I will be doing your laundry—”

“AND IRONING.”

“—that I will be doing your laundry and ironing every day for the rest of my life. I know that. But Ari, I’m _fine_ , I’m completely okay. Are you okay?”

“OF COURSE I AM NOT OKAY, ARTHUR, I THOUGHT YOU HAD BEEN MURDERED.”

“I know, Ari, I _know_. I’m sorry. I meant, are you safe? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

“IF BY STUPID YOU MEAN CALL YOUR CELL 900 TIMES AND PACE AROUND THE—”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Arthur says, leaning back against the wall and letting his whole body go slack. “God, I am so glad you’re okay, Ari, you have no fucking idea.”

“Arthur—” Ariadne says, in a much less hostile tone, “What the hell? Why were you worried about _me_?”

“Because you’re a much better person than I am, and I thought you might have been all stupid and brave and marched down to that hotel to confront the guy that I was supposed to meet and—”

“I did do that.”

 _“What?”_  

“Jesus, I’m not an idiot. Do you think I knocked on his door and said, _‘Oh hi, you picked up my friend for sex on the internet and I think you murdered him maybe, can I come in_?’”

“Then what the hell did you do?”

“I snagged a keycard from some drunk guy in the hotel bar and went to the room number you texted me. I stuck the card in the door, pretending I was trying to get into my own room but that I had the wrong one by mistake.”

“And what happened?”

“He opened door, I acted confused and apologized, and that was it. I got a good look at the room though, when he answered. There was no sign of you.”

“I know. I never went there.”

“You never went there?”

“No, I—Ari, you’re never going to believe what happened to me last night.”

“If you weren’t abducted by the aliens from ‘Alien’, I don’t want to hear about it.” 

“Guess where I am?”

“Jail?”

“No.”

“The hospital?”

“No.”

“Guatemala?”

“Fuck—no, Ari. I’m at the Regent Beverly Wilshire.”

“You’re—what?”

“Number 26. I’m with Eames—the guy—Number 26. He wants me to stay the whole week with him. He’s paying me _fifty thousand dollars,_ Ari. Just to be his arm candy or whatever. Ari, this money is going to change my whole fucking life.”

It’s the first time Arthur’s said it out loud, even thought it out loud. But it’s true. That much money is going to change everything for him.

“Arthur—are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

“I WAS RIGHT!” Ari squeals triumphantly. “I told you so! Did I not tell you so?”

“Ari—that’s the most important detail you’re picking up from this whole thing? That you were right?”

“That’s always the most important detail in any situation where I am right, so yeah.”

“I think you and Eames would get along. Both of you get some special pleasure out of annoying me.”

“You should introduce us.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you better take me out to dinner with some of your fancy money. It’s the least you could do after making me think you were dead.”

“I really am sorry about that. I have no idea why I didn’t text you. I think I was—”

Arthur pauses, troubled by a sudden epiphany.

“—I think I was having fun.”

Ariadne laughs, and Arthur presses the phone closer to his ear to take in more of the sound.

“I really am glad you’re okay,” he says.

Arthur clears his throat, and adds, “I care about you, you know. You’re not—”

He clears it again. 

“You’re not just some girl from the apartment next door who bothers me, even though I’m sure I make it seem that way. You’re my best friend.”

Arthur feels horribly uncomfortable with that speech. It’s probably the most affection he’s expressed towards a person since his mother died when he was five years old. It makes him feel excruciatingly naked, like all the parts of him are bare at once.

“God,” Ariadne says in response, “One night with this guy and look at you—having fun, telling me I’m your best friend. What is happening? Is he a Care Bear or something?”

Arthur adores her more in this moment than he probably ever has, because instead of giving him some mushy speech in return, she did exactly what she knew would make him most comfortable—be sarcastic, lead with an insult.

He is going to do her laundry so well she doesn’t even _know_.

“Ari, I have no idea what’s happening with me,” Arthur answers, in a rare moment of total honesty. “I think I feel happy. Is this what happy people act like?”

“You mean like total idiots? Yeah,” Ari says. Her tone is sharp but fond, the way he’s used to hearing it. “Yeah, I think it is.” She pauses. “And I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“I know.”

“But if you forget to text me again when you say you’re going to, I will actually kill you.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Listen, I’m coming by the apartment later to pick up some stuff. See you then?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here,” she says. “And be aware that you’ve got a kick in the shins coming your way.”

“Can’t wait,” Arthur says, and hangs up.

He sits his phone on the desk and smiles down at the blank screen. There is a knock on the door.

“Everything alright?” Mr. Charles asks, as he walks back into the room.

“Yeah."

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says. “For letting me use your charger.”

“No problem,” says Mr. Charles. “Your car is being pulled up front right now.”

“Great,” Arthur says, walking toward the door. “I’m sorry for acting crazy, by the way. It really was an emergency.”

Mr. Charles shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Do you need anything else?”

Arthur is about to say no, but something occurs to him. “Am I going to have trouble using Eames’ credit card? I don’t know how that sort of thing works. It’s not my name on it—is that going to turn into a clusterfuck like the thing with the car?”

“Probably, unless Eames called ahead to a specific store for you.”

“Which obviously he didn’t.”

“And your attire won’t exactly—” Mr. Charles gestures vaguely, giving Arthur an apologetic once over.

Arthur tips his head back in frustration. “Fucking glitter,” he mutters to the ceiling.

“Hold on, I think I can help with this,” Mr. Charles says. He pulls out his phone, hits a button, and puts it to his ear.

“Hey Colette, can I speak to Mal?”

There is a pause. Then—

“Hi Mal, it’s—hi.” Mr. Charles’ face breaks out into a ridiculous grin. “I’m fine, I’m—how are you?”

 _Holy shit,_ Arthur thinks. Mr. Charles has got it bad. 

“Listen, I have a guest here. A guest of a guest, and he needs someone to help him with—Arthur, what are you getting exactly?”

“Suits. And everything else I’d need for a week of—whatever rich people do.”

Mr. Charles smiles, tells Mal.

“Did Eames give you some kind of budget?”

“He gave me an Amex Black and an order to buy ‘the most egregiously expensive’ whatever.”

Mr. Charles raises his eyebrows. “Yeah Mal, full tilt on this one.”

Arthur doesn’t know what full tilt means, but he’s pretty sure it’s going to cost Eames a lot of money.

“I’ll send him over. Okay, thank you so much. And—”

Mr. Charles pauses, turns around, and says something to Mal in a warm whisper that Arthur can’t quite make out.

Arthur rolls his eyes, waits.

After a minute Mr. Charles hangs up and drops the phone into his back pocket. “You’re all set,” he says to Arthur.

“Thank you, for—whatever that was.”

“Here,” he says, pulling a small card out of a drawer and handing it to Arthur. It’s made from a fine, thin metal with all embossed lettering.

 

DIOR HOMME

315 N RODEO DR BEVERLY HILLS, CA 90210

MALLORIE MILES, STYLISTE PERSONNELLE

 

“That’s the place. They’ll have everything you need.”

Arthur touches his fingertips to the print.

“Yeah, I—thank you.”

“Not a problem,” he says, opening the door for Arthur. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll probably need it.”

“You won’t really,” Mr. Charles says. “Mal’s a genius, she’ll take care of everything.” He gets that floaty look on his face again at the mention of her.

“You are such a goner,” Arthur says to him, stepping out into the lobby.  

Mr. Charles smiles, staring down at the mirror-shine of his shoes. “Trust me, I know.”

Arthur’s phone—his new one, the one Eames gave him—buzzes from inside his bag. He takes it out and sees a message. 

_heading 2 the border already darling? thought itd be at least another day b4 I ran you off._

Arthur smiles, shaking his head at the phone. He types out a response.

_Good job not putting me on the security list. Great start to my morning._

It buzzes back immediately.

_cannot b held responsible. sex too good. made brain fuzzy._

Arthur laughs out loud in the middle of the lobby. He is halfway through texting Eames back when he notices Mr. Charles staring at him from the doorway, a painfully amused look on his face.

“What?” Arthur asks sharply.

“Nothing,” he says, chuckling to himself. “I was just thinking it takes one to know one.” He closes the door behind him.

Arthur is in the car, halfway to Dior, when he realizes what Mr. Charles meant.

If he almost runs over a fire hydrant, no one has to know. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur steps inside Dior, feeling absurdly out of place among the sleek glass and polished steel. Before he can give running away any real consideration, a woman walks out and says, “You must be Arthur.”

She is wearing a cream-colored dress that moves delicately, fluid between the air and her as she walks. Her smile reminds him of what summer feels like.

“I’m Mal,” she says. Her voice is a rich, warm caramel. “I’ll be helping you.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, and means it. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing in a place like this.

She looks him over in chapters—neck to arm, chest to waist, hip to ankle—seeming to calculate measurements in her head. “Parfait,” she hums, two manicured hands brushing his shoulders, appraising and light. “You were made to wear a suit.”

Arthur, normally not one for intense personal scrutiny of any kind, feels himself preening under her attention.

“Come,” she says. She hooks her elbow around his, walking him toward the back of the store.  “Jean—stay out here on the floor. Colette, Marcus—bring everyone else.” Her matte black heels click forward with purpose.

Mal leads him into a huge back room just as expansive and sleek as the storefront. It looks like a mix between the inside of a salon and the backstage of a fashion show. She moves Arthur toward a mirror and tells him to lift his arms. When he does, three people descended on him at once with measuring tape, scribbling numbers onto a little black notebook as they map him out.

“We’re going to pull a number of things for you,” she says, looking him over in the mirror. "We can do tailoring on site here to adjust where we need, but I don’t think we’ll have a problem with the sample sizes.”

She leans forward, an admiring hum on her lips.

“If my designers got their hands on you, Arthur, they would never let you go. You’d be begged out onto the runway tomorrow.”

Before he can get properly flustered over that compliment, she frowns, pinching the hair falling over his forehead.

“Marcus—a haircut first. And burn these.” She gestures to Arthur’s t-shirt and jeans.

She walks off with the notebook of measurements in her hand, doling out instructions to the staff about trouser socks and tie clips and acceptable patterns for pocket squares, and Arthur thinks, _If Mr. Charles doesn’t propose, I might._

  

***

 

Arthur is showered, scrubbed, sheared, trimmed, and dabbed generously with aftershave before a single set of clothes are put in front of him.

“The canvas always comes before the paint,” Mal hums as she walks by, a delicate pinch between her eyebrows as she inspects a set of ties being held up for her consideration.

Arthur is ordered into a pair of boxer-briefs and a smooth white undershirt that feels like silk. He almost laughs when he puts it on—the last time be bought undershirts, they were the stiff, scratchy, three-to-a-pack kind you get at the drugstore.

That’s not to say Arthur doesn’t have any nice things. He’s made a couple of investments where it mattered to him—a top-of-the-line computer, a generous collection of his favorite books, a good bottle of wine every year on his birthday. His mother was the one who taught him the value of things, of what it meant to take care of what you have. He remembers the way she would iron and lay out a dress on the bed every morning before she went to work. They were the same dresses she had for years and years, none of them fancy, but the way she wore them—spotless and neat, with her high heels shiny, her lipstick perfect—made her look like an angel to Arthur.

She was so beautiful, he thinks, suddenly overcome with remembering her. He doesn’t think of her often enough.

“Arthur?” Mal says. He’s not sure how long she’s been standing there.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did you say something?”

“That we’re ready to get started.” She gestures to the rows of clothes the staff are rolling in all around them. There are entire racks of pants, jackets, shirts, overcoats, ties, sweaters, shoes—

“Holy shit,” Arthur says. “All of that?”

“You’re going to need it if you’re spending your time with Mr. Eames.”

“Wait,” Arthur says, “how did you—”

“Mr. Charles mentioned he was the guest you’re staying with.”

“Do you know Eames?” Arthur asks.

“A little. And you’re not the first one of his that’s been sent my way.”

Arthur frowns at that. He doesn’t particularly like being referred to as _one of_ _Eames’_.

“So, what? Have there been a lot?” Arthur doesn’t know why he asks that. Eames already told him as much. 

“A few,” Mal says. “Don’t be jealous, mon cœur.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re the most striking,” she says, tilting her head to consider him. “Certainly so. And he never let any of them drive one of his cars. He must like you very much.”

“I’m not jealous,” Arthur says. He’s _not_. This is a business arrangement.

Mal lifts her eyebrows and folds her arms. “Of course.”

“Mal, voici—suits or sportswear to start?” Marcus asks her, cutting in between them.

“The suits, in case we need to tailor.”

“D’accord,” Marcus says, walking away and giving out directions to the others.

“Mal,” Arthur says, once they’re alone again. “Can I ask you something?”

She nods, giving Arthur a soft, quizzical look.

“Does Eames—do you know, is he a good guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I honestly don’t know what I mean. He seems—we just met, and all of this, it’s—”

“Overwhelming?”

“No, that’s not—I mean, yeah, it is, but I just keep thinking there’s got to be some kind of catch to all of it," Arthur says. "This isn’t exactly the kind of thing that just happens to people.”

“Can I tell you a story, Arthur?” Mal asks, leaning her hip against a rack of suit jackets.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods.

“I grew up in Paris,” she says, slowly running her fingers under the hems. “My father, he’s a professor in the city, and he would always take me for long walks through Le Marais—he could never think inside his office, he said, and he loved that part of Paris because it’s where most of the pre-revolutionary architecture still exists. It feels like you’re in medieval France, sometimes, when you’re standing there.

“He had to go back to the academy early one afternoon, so he left me to wander on my own. I was maybe seventeen, I don’t remember exactly. I was walking, looking down at the way the stones in the street cracked and leaned into one another, so uneven and exquisite, when someone came up to me and said, very lightly in my ear, ‘It’s the broken things in the city that are the most beautiful, don’t you think?’”

There is a dreamy apartness to Mal's expression, like she is all the way back to that day, that street.

“I turned around and saw this tall, handsome American man smiling at me, and I remember we kept talking—about the city, about all the old things we loved to wander past and put our hands on." Mal pauses, tucking her smile into her hand. "We talked so long we ended up walking all the way to the Seine together. We ate cheap oysters in this terrible little place by the river, and when we were crossing the bridge afterwards, I broke one of my heels, and I remember he carried me into the first shop we saw and bought me a new pair. They were so hideous, the shoes, and we kept laughing about it the rest of the night, about these horrible puce green things, and he promised he’d buy me better ones in Madrid, if I would come with him there the next week.”

Mal smiles, fond and far away. “I remember, Arthur, standing there, at midnight on Rue de Lille, a broken shoe in my hand, and him bending to kiss me, so easy, like it was the hundredth time and not the first. And I thought to myself—this is how it happens.”

“How what happens?” asks Arthur.

“Magic,” Mal says, tucking a chocolate brown curl behind her ear. “That it comes to you in the center of the day, in the middle of a walk you’ve taken a dozen times. There is no bell that rings, no fairy dust. It’s a quiet thing.”

“That’s a nice story, Mal,” Arthur says. “I just don’t see what it has to do with—”

“Arthur,” she says, standing up and settling two hands lightly at his waist. “Sometimes, and only sometimes, life can become unexpectedly and altogether charmed. There is no explanation, no guarantees to it. But if it happens,” she squeezes his ribs, letting a warm smile crinkle all the way to her eyes, “we should let it, no?”

She leans in and kisses him on both cheeks, soft and swift. With the snap of her fingers, the clothes descend. 

 

***

 

“This can’t be how they’re supposed to fit,” Arthur says, standing opposite the mirror, watching the way every pair of pants Mal shimmies him into grips his ass so tight he might as well be naked.

“Parfait,” Mal says, ignoring Arthur. “No adjustments. Alors, the next.”

This is how it goes—it’s four hours of tiny buttons and starched collars, thin pinstripes and triple-prong cufflinks, shoes with laces and jackets that cut across his narrow waist. It’s more clothes than Arthur's seen in his life.

At the beginning, he is nothing but baffled by it. He doesn’t understand how any one outfit could require twenty separate bits and pieces to make it complete. Mal is continually shuffling things on and off of him, clucking her tongue when it’s wrong and humming in French when it’s right, and at some point he stops letting his feathers get ruffled by all of it and starts paying attention.

He begins to notice the shape of things, the way certain colors pair with one another. There is a science to it, he recognizes. There are distinct patterns that can be followed, and Arthur starts to track them, to make lists in his head—of which pants call for a belt and which for suspenders, which waistcoats should be worn with or without a tie, which pocket squares couple with which jackets.

He absorbs enough that at some point he starts to make suggestions. He asks for a dove grey jacket instead of a sandstone one, picks a steel tie clip over a gold, tells them to slick his hair back instead of part it to the side. “With pomade—not the gel,” he specifies.

“You have an eye for this,” Mal appraises, looking over the outfit he composed.

“I’m a quick learner,” he says, lacing up a dark charcoal shoe.

Everything gets wrapped in thick black boxes with tissue paper and ties. There are stacks and stacks of them by the end, an entire wall in the middle of the store made out of his new wardrobe.

Arthur is wondering how the fuck he’s going to fit all of it into a two-door sports car when he hears Mal on the phone with Mr. Charles, scheduling for everything to be picked up and taken back to his hotel room within the hour.

“He was right about you, you know,” Arthur says, after she hangs up the call. “He said you would handle everything. And that you were a genius.”

“Mr. Charles is very sweet,” Mal says, a blush painting her perfect cheekbones.

“Does he know about the guy who bought you the terrible oysters and the ugly shoes?” Arthur asks, pulling on a pair of driving gloves. He opens and closes his hand, feeling the fine leather stretch over his knuckles.

“Mr. Charles was the man who bought me the terrible oysters and the ugly shoes,” Mal says, plucking Eames’ credit card from Arthur’s pocket and sauntering off to charge whatever obscene number everything totaled up to.  

“Did you go to Madrid with him in the end?” Arthur asks, when she hands it back.

“No,” Mal says, straightening Arthur’s tie until it sits precisely in the center of his shirt, a line of deep plum cutting down bone white. “I didn’t see him for a very long time after that night.”

“You stayed in Paris?”

“Yes, for a time.”

“I’ve always—” Arthur hesitates, the confession held just behind his teeth. He wants to say it to Mal, but it’s something he’s never told anyone. It’s the kind of insignificant secret that becomes precious through the keeping of it.

“What, Arthur?”

“My mom,” he starts, trying to explain, “she used to read me these books— _The Red Balloon, Madeline, Anatole_. We always talked about running off to Paris. It was like a bedtime story that kept growing—what we’d see, the things we’d do when we got there. I would always say something ridiculous like I wanted to climb the Eiffel Tower or steal all the paintings in the Louvre or whatever, and she would just laugh and tell me we’d do it all, anything I could think up. And even after she—”

Arthur hesitates, stepping around that blunt hurt like broken glass on the floor. “I’ve always wanted to go there, to Paris.”

He’d been thinking about it all day—it was hard not to after listening to everyone buzz around him speaking French, after trying on clothes with _Fabriqué à Paris_ etched onto every label.

“You should,” Mal says, putting a warm hand to his cheek. “You should go. It was made for you, that city.”

Arthur puts his hand over hers, letting the unfamiliar, floaty feeling of new friendship effervesce under his skin.

Ariadne really would accuse him of fucking a Care Bear if she saw this.

“Come, let me walk you out,” Mal says, taking his hand in hers.

Arthur thanks everyone on his way towards the door and is returned with a chorus of _de rien_ and _au revoir_ and _bon chance, mon chou._

It was a good day, Arthur thinks.

“Thank you,” he says to Mal one more time, opening the car door but not getting in.

“It’s nothing,” she answers, kissing him on both cheeks. “Call me soon, we’ll have some wine and you can tell me about all the scandalous things Mr. Eames says to you after he sees you in those clothes.”

“ _Mal_ ,” Arthur scolds, but he puts no heat behind it.

“You should tell him about Paris. He’d take you, you know.”

“It’s not like that, with us,” Arthur says.

“Not like what?”

“We have an arrangement, him and I,” Arthur says, trying to tell her without actually saying it. “It’s not a romantic thing.”

“Oh Arthur,” Mal says, looking at him as though he is impossibly young, “Pour quelqu'un qui voit tant de choses, vous pouvez être tout à fait aveugle à votre propre cœur.”

Arthur wants to ask her what she means, but Mal is already walking away, two heels clicking firm against the pavement, one delicate wrist waving him goodbye.

 

***

 

“You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” Ariadne cries when Arthur pulls up in front of their building. “Is that thing stolen? Should we be on the run right now or is—”

Arthur gets out of the car, and Ariadne’s jaw drops straight to the ground at the sight of him.

“Who are you and where is Arthur,” she says, her voice a flat line of breath.

“Do I really look that different?” Arthur asks, pulling his slate grey coat open and peering down at the suit underneath. 

“Yes,” Ari says, walking over. “Definitely, yes.” She starts touching him everywhere, pulling and poking at him like he’s an interactive exhibit at a science museum.

“Hey, can you not?” he says, reeling away from the invasion. “I’ve already had twenty French people’s hands all over me today.”

“Kinky.”

“Oh shut up,” Arthur says. “Did you bring it?”

“Right here,” Ari says, handing him his computer.

“Thanks, you’re a life saver.”

“Not a problem. Feel free to return the favor by leaving some baubles or jewels at my door. You know, whatever this Eames guy throws your way that you don’t want.”

“All the diamonds are yours, I promise,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey,” Ariadne says, stopping him just before he gets back into the car. “You look really good, Arthur.”

He feels an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “Thanks,” he says, ducking his head as he gets in the car. “I promise I’ll come back and do all your laundry on Friday.” 

“You better,” she says, smiling at him.

He waves to her one last time before he turns the corner and punches the gas.

 

***

 

Arthur pulls up to the hotel and rolls the car to a stop.

“Good afternoon, Mr.—”

“Arthur.” He hands over the keys to the valet. “I think we met earlier.”

The valet looks Arthur over in mute shock. The realization that the screaming, glitter-covered man who almost assaulted him this morning is, in fact, the same person standing in front of him now seems to be landing like a hammer to the head.

“I—am _so_ sorry, sir, about that—misunderstanding. I don’t—I hope you can—”

“Don’t sweat it,” Arthur says, leaving a more than generous tip on the desk.  _"Asshole"_ , he adds, just under his breath, quiet enough for them both to pretend he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Arthur,” Mr. Charles greets as soon as he walks into the lobby. “How did it go?”

“You should marry that girl,” Arthur says, smiling as he heads past him toward the elevators.

“Good evening, sir,” the receptionist greets when he passes by the desk. Arthur has to do a double take. “Can I send anything up for you?” she asks.

“Uh—no, I don’t think so,” he says, walking ahead. “Thanks.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Oh, actually,” Arthur says, halting mid-step, ”I don’t know if you do this kind of thing but, uh—can you get me a charger? For this phone?” He digs it out of his pocket and holds it up for her.

“Certainly. We’ll send it right up.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says, nodding politely and continuing on toward the elevators.

“What floor, sir?” the attendant asks when he enters.

“The penthouse,” Arthur answers.

As the elevator doors close in front of him, Arthur realizes, with an unfamiliar mix of victory and vanity, that no one thought he was invisible today.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur spends the rest of the afternoon in research-mode—headphones on, computer open, a pack of highlighters to his right, a stack of post-it notes to his left.

The first thing he does is Google Eames.

After sorting through a colorful series of Esquire photo shoots and a far dryer sequence of Economist profiles, Arthur has eight pages of notes in his Moleskine: Eames, first name Edward, 28-years-old (will be 29 in a month), grew up on a massive estate in Devon, his father (deceased) founded the company Eames now runs, the offices of which are based out of London and New York. Eames is considered a wunderkind—he led a massive restructuring of the business in his first year as acting CEO and has since produced 19 consecutively profitable quarters for the company, previous to which it had fallen completely in the red. He has two private planes, a yacht docked in St. Tropez, and may possibly own the Maldives (Arthur will double-check this). He has been out of the closet for a decade and his preference for tall, dark, and handsome only gets a blip in the press now. He attends the Met Gala every spring, the Royal Opera House Gala every winter, and never brings the same person twice. He looks devastating in a tux.

Arthur crosses out that last note, and flips to a new page.

His company—Sharpham Holdings—does only two things: buys other companies, and breaks those companies into pieces.

Eames, every source confirms, is very, very good at this.

Arthur stops there because he starts to feel weird about it. He normally wants to know everything about everything, gets off on holding all the cards, but this feels wrong for some reason. It’s strange to be in possession of so many facts about Eames, none of which Eames himself told him. And the stranger part is that none of those facts actually add up to the person Arthur knows. There is no mention of his wily sense of humor, his over-the-top kindness, the rough lush cadence of his voice, his terrible taste in ties. At some point all the facts become pixels on the screen. Eames isn’t in them, not really.

Arthur decides to move on and dig through the case file instead, which turns out to be 200 pages of dry detail regarding the deal Eames is closing.

The company he is currently buying and busting to pieces is Fischer-Morrow—a massive Australian energy conglomerate that is, according to the case file, the largest company that Sharpham Holdings has ever attempted to acquire. The financing for the buyout came from a series of investors, the principal of which is a man named Saito. Saito, it turns out, is the President of Proclus Global—one of Fischer-Morrow’s direct competitors. It’s pretty obvious the benefit he’d get from Fischer-Morrow being knocked off the map, and the amount of money he’s invested in the acquisition is appropriately staggering. Arthur calculates it as being almost half his net worth.

Even with so much money behind it, it’s clear to Arthur, after examining all the facts, that this takeover should have been impossible. But impossible seems to be something of a professional specialty for Eames.

He managed to pull off the buyout by taking advantage of the disorganization that descended on Fischer-Morrow after its founder, Maurice Fischer, fell critically ill. The leadership structure became blurred and the board of directors, after learning of Maurice’s condition, began to express misgivings about what would come next. This gave Eames the opening he needed to initiate a hostile takeover of its holdings, moving in before Maurice’s son, Robert, could take a firm hold of the reigns. That’s how it all tipped, one piece to the next, like very expensive dominos.

By end of this week, Eames will have officially acquired enough stock to hold the controlling interest in the company. And that’s that. Goodbye, Fischer-Morrow.

It’s elegant but brutal, the way Eames works. He has a gift for causing collapse. Arthur wonders if Eames finds it fun—taking down these titans of industry one at a time, knocking over billion-dollar empires like jenga blocks—or if it’s a burden to him, the breaking of so many things, the blood on his hands.

“You must be bored to tears,” Eames whispers, popping out Arthur’s left earbud with a tug.

“FUCK,” Arthur yelps, vaulting from his chair.

“Hello to you too,” Eames says, sitting down his briefcase and shrugging off his coat.

“FUCK. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? You don’t just sneak up on people like a fucking—”

“The mouth on you, darling,” Eames hums, flipping through the case file Arthur has been highlighting, notating, and color-coding for the last four hours.

“Do you understand how obnoxious—”

“Arthur,” Eames interrupts, scanning the additions and corrections Arthur penned into the file. “Arthur, this is—Christ, this is incredible work. Is this accurate, your note here about the relationship between Fischer and the director of—”

“Of course it’s _accurate_ ,” Arthur says. “Why the hell would I have written it in if it wasn’t accurate?”

Eames glances up, his mouth already open around some glib retort, when he gets a good look at Arthur for the first time since he came in the door.

His mouth promptly shuts.

Then flaps open.

Then shuts.

Then—

“Arthur—Christ.” Eames doesn’t manage any more words after that. He just stands there, his eyes scraping up and down Arthur’s midnight blue suit.

“They’re just clothes,” Arthur says, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, fidgeting under the firm press of Eames’ gaze. He’s not uncomfortable, he’s just—flustered a little, like it’s too hot, like the whole room is too hot all of the sudden.

“Arthur—” Eames manages, stepping closer. He reaches forward and splays his fingers into the rich fabric of Arthur’s shirt, right at the center of his chest. The touch is open and careful, an armslength left between their bodies.

Eames is being polite again, Arthur notes. Way too polite, when it’s clear that all he wants to do is obliterate the distance between them and crowd himself against Arthur.

Arthur realizes he wants Eames to do that too, and it’s such a bizarre thing for Arthur to think that it makes him sort of dizzy for a second, drunk on it.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames by the hips and yanking him forward. He slides the heel of his palm down the front of Eames’ pants.

“Fuck, _Arthur_ —” Eames breathes into his neck.

“This one-word vocabulary thing,” Arthur asks, undoing Eames’ zipper and working a hand into his pants, “is that due to the sudden rush of blood away from your brain, or—”

“Shut the bloody hell up,” Eames murmers, moving to press his mouth against Arthur’s. Arthur angles away from the kiss.

“I don’t do that,” Arthur reminds him. Eames’ lips skid against his chin.

“M’sorry,” Eames mumbles, mouthing at the bend of Arthur’s jaw, “For a moment—forgot that you—that this isn’t—”

The end of his sentence breaks off into a hiss when Arthur fists a hand around him.

“This is all I had to do to get you to stop talking?” Arthur asks, not even trying to hide his smirk. He works Eames’ cock, rough, too fast. “Should have told me sooner.”

“I hope you bought more than just the one, you cheeky shit,” Eames growls, ripping open Arthur’s shirt to get at more skin. The buttons make little _ping ping ping_ sounds as they hit the floor, quick as gun cartridges.

“You don’t even want to know how many I bought,” Arthur says, tipping his head back to give Eames better access to the line of his neck. Eames makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

Arthur is trying not to lose the rhythm of the hand working Eames, but it’s hard to keep any sort of pace when Eames is doing these ridiculous things with his mouth, teeth grazing against the hard bone of Arthur’s clavicle, tongue laving at the cords of his throat.

“You smell _incredible_ ,” Eames moans. He inhales hard through his nose.

“Ridiculously expensive aftershave,” Arthur pants. “Cost you a fortune.”

“Go back. Buy more. Buy all of it,” Eames says into his skin.  

He pushes Arthur flat against the wall and shoves a leg between his thighs. It’s sloppy and shameless and there is a light switch digging into Arthur’s back and _Arthur doesn’t even fucking care_.

The thing is—Arthur normally has a habit of thinking nonstop during sex. He’s constantly assessing things like how much the client is liking whatever he’s doing, if he should be louder, if he should be filthier, if he should be more aggressive, if he should mewl, if he should beg—whatever. And on the few occasions Arthur’s had sex recreationally, his ceaseless mind still didn’t shut up. He remembers being given a terrible blowjob in a club bathroom two years ago, spending the whole time trying to figure out if the song draining out of the tinny speakers was by Madonna or Kylie Minogue. 

Maybe it’s because this is all so ridiculous—the hotel, the car, the fact that some British billionaire would pay $50,000 for a week with him. Or maybe it’s because Arthur agreed not to fake it, or because of the things Mal said, or, _fuck_ , maybe it’s just that Eames really is _that_ _good_ at this. 

Whatever the reason, Arthur isn’t thinking about anything right now.

“ _Hnnnnnn_ ,” Arthur whines through clenched teeth as Eames grabs his hips, drags him against his thigh. The hard slide of friction makes the room white out.

“At least—am still—managing words,” Eames points out, his voice shaking and wrecked. Arthur would glare at him if he remembered how.

They’re acting like a pair of fumbling, horny teenagers. Eames is thrusting shamelessly into Arthur’s hand, and Arthur is grinding down onto Eames’ thigh, and Arthur has no idea how this became his life. Unfortunately, he has no higher brain functions left to examine the situation, let alone course-correct it. All Arthur can do is let a very atypical set of sounds vent from his throat and then come in his $800 pants.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur cries, hot and loud. 

Eames joins in with his own chorus of obscenities a minute later, coming all over Arthur’s pressed suit. They slump against the wall afterwards, boneless and breathing hard. 

At some point, one of them laughs—Arthur’s not sure who starts it, but it really doesn’t matter. Within the space of two seconds, they’re gone.

“I never came in my fucking— _PANTS_ —ever—”

“Christ—Arthur, your _suit—_ ”

“I blame you— _somehow_ —Eames, you—”

“We look like—a bloody— _10 quid_ porno—”

It takes a good five minutes for them to calm down from the hysterics, another five for them to fully unstick themselves from the wall and each other. They decide that a shower is, absolutely, a necessity.

Eames lets Arthur turn the water up as hot as it’ll go (despite complaints of probable scalding) and Arthur lets Eames give him a shampoo mohawk (despite scowling wrathfully through the ordeal), and it should be so strange, Arthur thinks, showering with someone else, but it’s not. Eames puts his hands on him, soaping up his back, pressing easy, open-mouthed kisses between his shoulder blades, and it’s—nice.

They get out and towel off, and Eames gawks at the wall of Dior boxes stacked in the bedroom. Arthur reminds Eames that he was the one who told him to buy so many damn clothes, and Eames says he’s not gawking because of the number of boxes, but rather because he’s distracted with images of Arthur wearing it all. Arthur ends up promising Eames a fashion show later just to shut him up, and Eames says that Arthur really should _not_ have done that because Eames is going to get popcorn and put on sexy music and settle down to watch while Arthur tries on every single thing.

Arthur rolls his eyes, Eames pinches Arthur’s ass, and that’s how they end up very, very late to dinner.

“I think you should drive,” Eames says, working a sloppy knot into his tie. “It’s the only hope we have of arriving before midnight.”

“We’ll make it there in 15 minutes,” Arthur says, pulling on his leather driving gloves. “Watch.”

“You know,” Eames says, smoky and low, looking him over, “I don’t doubt it.”

Arthur is dressed in classic black, in pants that cradle his slim hips like sex itself, and when he moves, Eames watches.

“Those trousers will be the death of me, they really will,” Eames tells him, shutting the door and letting Arthur walk ahead of him.

“Yeah, well, you can thank Mal for that,” Arthur says, hitting the down button on the elevator. “I told her they were obscene.”

“They are _terribly_ obscene,” Eames says, ogling Arthur’s ass. “That is why I want to thank her.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur says, trying to put some bite into it despite the fact that he can’t stop smiling. It’s kind of a problem.

“Good evening, Mr. Eames, Mr.—Arthur,” the valet greets when they get outside. “Which car would you like me to—”

“The Lamborghini,” Eames says. “For Arthur.”

“Of _course_ , sir, I’m—I’ll just—” The valet scurries off to fetch the car. 

“Did I do something?” Eames asks Arthur, his voice pitched in confusion. “He seems petrified.”

“Yeah, that’s because of me,” Arthur says. “Long story. Totally your fault, by the way.”

“Ah, well,” Eames says, shrugging, “Nearly always is.”

“I believe that,” Arthur says.

The car arrives, and, after some further stuttering and apologizing from the valet, Eames manages to press a tip into his hand and get past him into the car.

“Christ, what did you _do_?” Eames asks, laughing. “Threaten to cut off his manhood if he breathed on the Italian leather wrongly?”

“First of all, no,” Arthur says. “Second of all, your fault. Third of all, I may or may not have had to make some oblique death threats when he _called security on me_ this morning. Which was, again, your fault _._ ”

“You are terribly sexy when you’re all worked up about something, did you know that?”

“Eames—I’m sure there is an ejector seat button somewhere on this dashboard,” Arthur says. “I will find it, and I will use it.”

“Also terribly sexy when issuing death threats,” Eames hums.

“Where the hell are we going?” Arthur asks, ignoring Eames.

“Voltaire—it’s at 246 Canon Drive.”

Arthur shifts gears, letting the car thunder to life under him. “Who is this dinner with, anyway?”

“Robert Fischer,” Eames sighs resignedly. “And I’m sure he’ll be bringing dear Uncle Peter. I assume you read about him.”

“Peter Browning,” Arthur confirms, “Robert’s head legal counsel.”

“And godfather.”

“Yeah, I read the brief on him in the case file, but it wasn’t very complete.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No,” Arthur says. “It had nothing in there about his recent statements regarding the acquisition, which are pretty fucking eviscerating, by the way. I found a few quotes when I was looking up the—”

“Can I ask you something?” Eames says, shifting in his seat to face Arthur.

“Yeah?”

“What is your background?” Eames asks, his eyes narrowed. “You seem to have a razor-sharp aptitude for this.”

“I’m just not an idiot,” Arthur says.

“Are you saying the researcher who put that report together is an idiot?”

“Well, was anything redacted?” Arthur asks. “I mean, is it a partial file, or is that supposed to be everything?”

“It’s a full research summary, yes,” Eames says. “Obviously it doesn’t detail my end of things—no meeting transcripts, no purchase logs, nothing like that—but that file is the complete body of background work we’ve done on Fischer-Morrow and its board members.”

“Then yeah. Whoever made that report is an idiot.” Arthur shrugs. “Either that or they’re working for Fischer, because things are missing.”

“So—your assessment is that my head of research is either incompetent, or a turncoat?”

“Pretty much,” Arthur says. “I can take you through the file later. You’ll see what I mean. ”

Eames looks at him—really looks, like he's trying to see past Arthur’s skin.

“What?” Arthur asks sharply.

“Nothing,” Eames says, letting his expression soften to a smile. “It’s just—people rarely surprise me, Arthur.”

“Yeah well,” Arthur says, pulling up hard at a stop light, “you’re lucky. Some of them shock the hell out of me.”

Eames sits his hand on Arthur’s leg. Arthur looks at him.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” Eames says, skimming his thumb over the rise and hollow of Arthur’s knee. “This dinner would be completely fucking miserable otherwise.”

Arthur swallows, feeling the air thicken in his throat. “Yeah, I mean. It’s fine. Coming to stuff like this is what I’m here for, right?”

Eames looks at him, something heavy settling into the fold of his eyebrows. “Yes. That’s—of course, that’s why you’re here.”

Arthur turns back to the road, sinking his foot onto the gas. Eames retracts his hand.

“So,” Arthur says, “why did Robert ask for this dinner?”

“Robert has something up his sleeve, or thinks he does,” Eames says. “He called this dinner because he wants to dangle it in front of me, whatever it is. He’s hoping he can get me to sweat a bit.”

“Are you worried about that?”

“Not particularly,” Eames says. “I was assured by my head of research that Robert doesn’t have any real moves left, which was my feeling already. But since you just informed me that my head of research may be incompetent, I’m inclined to be slightly more concerned.” 

“If this is strictly a business thing between you and Robert, why am I here?” Arthur asks. “How does that make any sense?” 

“It’s a terribly me sort of thing to do, bringing a date to a business dinner,” Eames says, a smirk in his voice. “Though my real intention is to set them off their game a bit. They’ll feel the need to talk in riddles around you, when it comes to sensitive information. And after having torn that report up end-to-end, you’ll _wreck_ them. When you cut in with some comment that makes clear you not only know what they’re talking about, but know it better than they do—”

Arthur feels a hot thrill of pride at that.

“—well, I cannot wait to see Browning’s face, I really can’t,” Eames says.

“So, what’s the plan?” Arthur asks. “Fischer flashes you the ace up his sleeve—then what?”

“There are three things I need to accomplish tonight. One, get Robert to tell me what he’s up to. Two, make him think I already knew it. Three, make him think I’ve already stopped it.”

“How the hell are you going to do all that?” Arthur asks.

“Oh darling,” Eames says, tilting a smile toward Arthur, “This is the fun part.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur spends the evening doing two things: listening intently to the conversation between Eames, Fischer, and Browning, and silently panicking over what the fuck to do with all the silverware in front of him.

“Dessert fork,” Eames whispers in his ear, brushing his hand over Arthur’s in a gesture that would seem casually affectionate to an onlooker, but is really him pointing out the right utensil. They’ve perfected this move over the course of the night.

Arthur catches Eames’ fingertips between his knuckles and gives them a small squeeze—a thank you.

Eames smiles at him.

“If you’re done,” Robert says, rolling his eyes at them with a hard sigh, “I want to get back to the—”

“No,” Eames says, still looking at Arthur. “No, I don’t think I am quite.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the base of Arthur’s throat. Arthur flushes all the way to his toes and tries to breathe like a normal person.

Arthur knows why Eames is doing this. His technique the entire night has been to purposely and repeatedly disregard Robert—flip through his phone while Robert talked, ask him to repeat what he said and then not listen a second time, cut Robert off mid-sentence to ask the waiter some unimportant question—on and on.

Arthur can tell that it’s working—Robert’s neat, chilly exterior is noticeably budding cracks. It’s only a matter of time before he blurts the details about whatever he’s up to in an attempt to seize Eames’ attention, to try and put Eames in his place. 

Eames just needs to bruise Robert’s ego a little bit more, dismiss him a little bit further, and—

“If you only came here to waste my time by pawing all over your—”

“I feel I should remind you, Robert, that you requested this dinner,” Eames interrupts, kissing the undercurve of Arthur’s jaw. “And thereby you are wasting my time simply by being in front of me.”

That does it. 

“You are so far out of line, you piece of—” Browning starts, but Robert jumps in before he can finish.

“You’re right, let’s not waste any more of each other’s time,” Robert says, sounding magnificently self-satisfied. “I called this dinner to inform you personally that you’ve failed in your acquisition of Fischer-Morrow.”

“Have I?” Eames asks, unconcerned. “Arthur, can you remind me how much of Robert’s stock I own?”

“80 million shares,” Arthur says, letting Eames press a kiss just under his ear. “And you’re closing on 12 million more this week.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Robert says.

“Ah, well, thing about that is—maths,” Eames says. “Stubborn things, numbers, and these ones assure me I’ve won.”

Eames pulls back, but he takes Arthur’s hand with him. He undoes Arthur’s cufflink, folds open the cuff, and kisses Arthur’s wrist.

Arthur knows it’s all a show for Robert’s benefit—but that doesn’t keep his stomach from flipping over itself when Eames presses his lips to the naked column of his wrist, in front of everyone, while looking at Arthur like he’s the most expensive thing in the room.

“We’re buying the stock back,” Robert says, the sureness of his voice wavering under Eames’ blunt indifference. “Enough to keep your hands off Fischer-Morrow.”

“Oh Robert, my hands have no interest in you,” Eames says, running his thumb over the hard bone of Arthur’s wrist.

“Listen, cocksucker,” Browning interjects with some bite. Eames raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t bother looking away from Arthur. “We’ve got the board back on our side, we’ve got the inside track on a massive deal with the Australian government that is going make us liquid enough to stop you, and you missed all this while you were off fucking your—”

“Do you mean the deal with AustraCorps to be the exclusive power providers to the entire continent for the next decade?” Arthur asks, in his first real contribution to the conversation.

Fischer, Browning, and Eames all turn to look at him.

“Because that’s over,” Arthur says, lying through his teeth with a sure, shimmering bravado he didn’t even know he had. “It’s going to be tied up in appropriations committees for months, more than enough time for Eames to acquire the controlling interest.”

“How could you know about that?” Robert demands, the first chord of panic pinging in his voice.

“So you have dirty politicians in your pocket too now, Eames? Is that how you’re pulling this horseshit?” Browning shouts at the same time.

“Who the hell are you?” Fischer seethes, glaring at Arthur like he’s just seen him sitting there for the first time. 

“Who Arthur is or isn’t is irrelevant—the point is that your deal is dead, the board is mine, and so is Fischer-Morrow. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Eames says, folding his napkin and getting up.

“Enjoy dessert,” Arthur says, smiling at Fischer and Browning, who have both turned impressive shades of puce.

Eames puts a hand to the small of Arthur’s back and is about to walk away when Browning stands up and grabs his wrist.

“I’m going to demolish you,” Browning says to Eames in a low hiss.

“I look forward to it,” Eames says, jerking his wrist away in a crisp movement that almost tumbles Browning over the table.

Arthur and Eames walk out, leaving Fischer and Browning sputtering in muted tones behind them.

Eames asks the valet for the car as soon as they get outside. The second they are alone together, Eames rounds on Arthur.

“How the hell did you know about a deal with AustraCorps?” Eames asks him, looking at Arthur with blade-sharp suspicion. “Are you working for someone? An industry spy, something like that? What is your play here?”

“Eames, what the fuck?”

“You show up yesterday out of bloody nowhere—”

“You are the one who almost _ran me over_ with your—”

“You know how to do high-level research, you know how to cut through extraordinarily dense material, you know—”

“I understand all that stuff, yeah, but it’s not because I’m—”

“It’s supposed to be a coincidence, then? That you drop into my life during this week, of all fucking weeks, and are brilliant at this? That you just happen to know all about an AustraCorps deal that no one on my team has any clue about?”

“I didn’t know anything about that fucking deal, okay! It was just a guess!”

“A guess, that’s what I’m supposed to believe? That you guessed?”

“Yes, Eames, I fucking _guessed!”_ Arthur shouts. “There were patterns in the research—Fischer in meetings with the Treasury, in meetings with the Australian Energy Summit, in meetings with all the government-subsidized energy providers, specifically AustraCorps. Then it was AustraCorps, AustraCorps, AustraCorps, over and over. So, I looked into them, and I saw that they put out a press release this morning—they said they were going to announce some exclusive partnership on Thursday that would ‘make the decade’. And when Browning said the thing about having the inside track on a deal with the government, it just—clicked, I don’t know. I guessed.”

Eames stares at him, his brow rutted in conflict. “How am I supposed to believe that, Arthur?”

Arthur is hit with a scalding flash of hurt. He tries his best not to feel it.

“Believe whatever the fuck you want, Eames,” Arthur says, pulling on his coat and walking off down the sidewalk.

He is five blocks away when he hears Eames running after him, his dress shoes clicking cleanly against the pavement.

“Arthur—wait!”

Arthur keeps walking, wrapping his coat more firmly around himself to block out the sharp evening chill.

“Arthur!” Eames calls, catching up. “Arthur, Christ, would you wait for one bloody second?”

Arthur stops.

Eames steps in close, putting both of his hands on Arthur’s waist.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says. “You’re right—it was me that almost ran you over with my bloody car, it was me who asked you to stay the week, it was me that emailed you to begin with. There is no way you could have been trying to insinuate yourself into my life. If anything, I look like a bit of stalker, really,” Eames says, a small smile on his lips. 

“Then why would you think I was some kind of fucking spy?”

“Because,” Eames says, dropping his hands in frustration. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That you would fall into my lap, quite literally, and then end up being so bloody good at this when you’re a—”

“When I’m a what? A cheap street fuck? A by-the-hour internet _cockslut?_ What, Eames?” Arthur ignores the raw, open ache blooming in his chest. “Tell me what I am. I’m interested.”

Eames vents out a long, gravelly sigh. His shoulders slump and his head drops into his hands. 

“Christ, Arthur, I’m so sorry,” Eames says, his voice a thin thread of sound. “What you are is brilliant—you were bloody fucking _brilliant_ in there, and I should be thanking you right now, not accusing you of—”

“Whatever, it’s okay,” Arthur says, abruptly feeling like a hypocrite.

Eames stares at him, his face creased in confusion. He looks so tired and miserable that it breaks Arthur’s heart a little.

“It’s—I don’t exactly do that well with trusting people,” Arthur explains. “So I get it. If I were in your position, I probably would’ve shot first and asked questions later.”

“I hope you don’t mean that literally,” Eames says, letting his hands drift back to Arthur’s waist.

“You never know,” Arthur says, smiling when Eames does.

“With you I really may never,” Eames says. He slides his hands inside Arthur’s jacket, effectively attaching himself to Arthur like a barnacle. “Terribly chilly out here,” he mumbles as an excuse.

“This is Los Angeles,” Arthur says in a flat tone. “It’s colder than usual maybe, but not enough for you to need to use me as a human glove.”

“Oh hush,” Eames says against Arthur’s neck, pulling him closer. “You don’t mind.”

The true indignity of the situation is that Arthur really doesn’t.

“Fine,” he says gruffly, pressing back into the heat of Eames without really thinking about it.  

They stay like that for a long time, holding onto one another, Eames pretending that it’s because of the cold, and Arthur pretending that it isn’t happening at all.

“Shall we go back and see if the valet has given the car away in our absence?” Eames asks, sometime later.

“I don’t think valets do that,” Arthur mumbles, mostly to keep Eames where he is.

“Certainly not the ones who meet you,” Eames says. “For fear of disembowelment.”

“That was _your_ _fault_ ,” Arthur huffs against Eames’ hair.

“I know, darling,” Eames says, close enough that his slow laugh reverberates all the way through Arthur. “I know.” 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Is this really necessary?” Arthur asks, pulling on what must be his fourteenth pair of pants.

“Unquestionably,” Eames says, tossing popcorn into his open mouth.

Arthur tried his best to get Eames to forget about the stupid promise. He was able to put it off for a few hours by casually dropping into the conversation that he’d never seen Star Wars—a confession that was met with alarm, horror, and outright questioning of Arthur’s humanity.

Arthur pretended to nod off toward the end of the movie, hoping Eames’ politeness would prompt him to switch it off and settle down to sleep next to him. This turned out to be a serious miscalculation on Arthur’s part. Eames was so aghast that he would dare to fall asleep during Star Wars that he demanded the fashion show immediately as recompense. Arthur knew that if he said no, Eames of course would never make him. But he would be so fucking annoying in his pouty acceptance that it just wouldn’t have been worth it.

So Arthur is putting on the damn clothes.

“Give us a turn then,” Eames says, bouncing on the edge of the bed like an overexcited child.

“No.”

“Bit of a hip waggle?”

“Is everything a negotiation with you?” Arthur asks, popping his hip a little just to shut Eames up.

“Christ, those are magnificent trousers,” Eames mumbles, eyes on Arthur. 

“Pants.”

“What?”

“ _Pants_ ,” Arthur says.

“Yes, I know, they’re trousers.”

“Pants, Eames. They’re called fucking pants.”

“How is it you Americans always think you know better than us?”

“Maybe because we kicked your landed gentry ass in the Revolutionary War?”

“During the Revolutionary War everyone would’ve called them trousers, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“Well,” Arthur says, “We’re in LA right now, and in LA they’re called pants.”

“Your xenophobia is alarming, Arthur, it really is.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, turning toward the mirror to unbutton his vest. As he’s working it open, he feels Eames step in behind him, his hands coming around to undo the last button for Arthur.

“Waistcoat,” Eames instructs, peeling it off of him.

“Are you educating me now?” Arthur asks, his voice catching a little when Eames’ hands slide up his torso.

“Braces,” Eames says, stretching one suspender off of Arthur’s shoulder, and then the other. Arthur watches the movement in the mirror.

“Oxford,” Eames whispers, untucking Arthur’s dress shirt, his lips barely touching the edge of Arthur’s ear.

Eames skims his fingers across Arthur’s stomach, letting them linger between shirt and skin. Arthur shakes out a breath, tipping his head back against Eames just a little.

“Now—these,” Eames says, slipping his hand low, palming Arthur over his boxer-briefs, “these are pants.”

“Such a fucking know-it-all,” Arthur says, fighting to keep his voice level when Eames tugs an earlobe between his teeth. 

“Insufferable, I know,” Eames hums. He sucks a mark into Arthur's skin. 

And it’s right then, right there, that Arthur decides to give up whatever personal or professional neurosis that’s been holding him back from this—from admitting to himself that he wants this, wants Eames. Because he does, _god_ , he fucking does _,_ and he’s tired of fighting everything all the time.

He drops his weight against Eames and pours out all the air he’s been holding too tight in his chest. 

“What do you want?” Eames asks in a rush, feeling Arthur give in against him.

“I don’t think anyone's ever asked me that,” Arthur blurts, too honest.

Eames turns him around. He holds Arthur’s jaw between his hands, firm and sure and solid, staring straight to the center of him. “What do you want, Arthur?”

Arthur tries to breathe. He tries to remember how to do it—air in, lungs full, air out, lungs limp, repeat, repeat, repeat. It doesn’t help. Not when Eames is looking at him that way.

“Please,” Eames says, tipping forward, his mouth on Arthur’s chin, his cheek. “Anything, tell me—”

“Your mouth,” Arthur hears himself say. “Your mouth. I want your mouth on my—”

Eames drops to his knees before Arthur can finish his sentence. The rest of his words spill out into a whine.

He watches Eames unzip him, watches Eames peel the pants from his hips, and it’s too much, almost, seeing it and feeling it at the same time. Eames’ breath is hot against the thin fabric of his boxers, his hands appealingly rough as they tug them down, puddling the expensive fabric at Arthur’s ankles.

“God, Eames,” Arthur says, when he’s naked from the waist down, and Eames’ lips—those ridiculous, full, fucked-out lips—are an inch from his cock.

“Is this what you want?” Eames asks, his breath hitting right at Arthur’s slit. He is so, _so_ close to touching him that Arthur thinks he might go insane from the almost of it.

“Fuck—don’t tease me, I'm— _ahhhhhhh_.” Arthur nearly sobs when Eames takes him into his mouth, sucking Arthur all the way to the back of his throat. The room roars with white noise and Arthur’s eyes slam shut.

He knows he’s making too many sounds, knows he’s pressing shallow, hard thrusts against the inside of Eames’ cheek, knows that his hands are making messy fists in Eames’ hair, knows that all of this is rude and rough and inelegant and not at all what he normally does. Arthur knows he should probably worry about how exposed, how cracked open he feels.

Arthur knows. He just can’t do anything about it right now.

“Eames— _fuck_ , I’m going to—” Arthur gasps, his whole body shuddering as he comes in a rush he wasn’t ready for.

Eames takes it, groaning long and low. He sucks Arthur through the last uneven thrusts he stutters out, touching him lightly at the hips, fingertips coarse and palms open.

Arthur braces his hands on Eames’ shoulders in an effort to stay upright. Eames presses his face to the curved bone of Arthur’s hip, breathing. 

They stay like that for a long time, long enough for Arthur to remember how to pull air into his lungs again. When he comes back to himself, he feels the hard, heavy line of Eames’ cock against his leg. It makes all the nerves under his skin spark bright and hot, like the really dangerous kind of fireworks.

It should be the most mundane thing in the world, Arthur thinks, someone getting hard for him. But that's just it, it’s never for Arthur, not really. The men who hire him get turned on from the game of it, from the glitter and the dimples and the act he puts on. They get hard from having power over someone else for an hour, from getting to fuck him however they want without hearing ‘no’. They want the hard candy fantasy of him, not the real thing. But Eames just spent the whole night yelling at Arthur about Star Wars, and teasing him about the British-English lexicon, and helping him figure out butter knives and dessert forks, and the thing is—Eames may be paying Arthur to be here, but he is the one who just got on his knees and blew Arthur until he saw fucking _stars_. Arthur is the reason Eames is hard right now, panting damply against his hip. 

Arthur can barely remember the last time someone wanted him that way.

“The shower,” Arthur says without having to think about it. “I want you to fuck me in the shower, right now. With the water up as hot as it’ll go.”

“Knew you were a dirty minx,” Eames says, but it comes out too wrecked, too needy. It doesn’t sound rakish the way Eames probably wanted it to. It sounds like _please, please._

They crowd each other into the shower and Arthur turns the water all the way to scalding. Eames presses Arthur forward against the tile, working him open with two fingers and then three.

“Slow,” Arthur says when Eames moves in behind him, his cock a point of firm pressure against Arthur’s opening. “I like it slow.”

“Anything, anything you want,” Eames promises, sliding a palm down the damp line of Arthur’s spine. He starts thrusting in one warm millimeter at a time.

Arthur’s last orgasm was like a truck hitting him at 100mph. This one is a low-revving engine, a sleek black car purring its way up the pavement. He feels it collecting in the flats of his feet, in the cage of his ribs, in the space between his shoulder blades.

“You’re gorgeous,” Eames murmurs, kissing Arthur at the place where spine meets skull. “You’re so gorgeous, Arthur.”

 _Don’t get used to this,_ Arthur begs himself. Soft, hungry noises roll out of the back of his throat. _Don’t be stupid enough to get used to this._

Eames cries out Arthur’s name when he comes. Arthur follows, spilling all over the bright red tile. Eames lets his weight fall forward against Arthur, closing the empty space between them.

They stay pressed together like that, listening to the water pour down. Arthur breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

 _Five days_ , Arthur reminds himself. _Don’t get used to this._

*******

**“** I don’t think I’ve eaten as much food in my entire fucking life,” Arthur says, his mouth stuffed full, “as I have in the last two days with you.”

Eames asked for the hotel to bring them In-N-Out, which seemed to Arthur like the kind of obnoxious request that only a rock star would make, considering that it’s 2 A.M. and someone had to go all the way to Westwood to get it. But he isn’t complaining about it now, tipping his cup all the way back to get at the last inch of his chocolate shake.

Arthur is normally a green salad kind of person. Aside from his unexplained thing for Doritos, he eats healthy most of the time—but if anyone tried to take his cheeseburger and fries away from him right now, he’d shoot them point-blank, no regrets.

“Are you saying my lifestyle is gluttonous?” Eames replies.

“Is that a serious question you’re asking me?” Arthur says. “You’re double-fisting cheeseburgers right now.”

Eames looks at his hands curiously, as though he didn’t realize they were both holding burgers thick with cheese and tomatoes and toppings.

“Well,” Eames shrugs, untroubled, “nothing wrong with a little gluttony. I advocate equal participation in all deadly sins—wouldn’t do for me to just focus on the lust and the greed all the time.”

“But those are your specialties,” Arthur says, licking mustard off of his fingers.

“So sweet of you to notice,” Eames says, tipping forward to smack a kiss right to Arthur’s nose. Arthur takes a giant bite of his burger before his scowl can collapse into a smile.

They’re sitting naked in the middle of the bed, the sheets rucked messily around their hips, a spread of fries and burgers laid out between them. There’s something gloriously vulgar about the whole thing that Arthur should probably hate, but he doesn’t.  

“It’s lucky I almost ran you over,” Eames says, his mouth full. “Think of the fun we’d have missed otherwise.”

“Yeah, you are lucky,” Arthur says, smirking, shoving a handful of fries gracelessly into his own mouth. “I was never going to email you back.”

“You weren’t?” Eames asks, somewhere between appalled and amused.

“Definitely not,” Arthur says. “I was on my way to meet someone else.”

“Arthur, I am terribly offended.”

“Well, what the hell were you doing?” Arthur asks. “You were out joyriding in your Lamborghini right after you emailed me. Shouldn’t you have been waiting in front of your computer for a response if you were so interested?”

“First of all,” Eames says, balling up his burger wrappers. “Some of us do get email on our phones. I am aware you use a blue plastic brick to take your calls, but I assure you, it is a thing people do.” 

Arthur gives him a look.

“Second,” Eames goes on, “dark truth be told—I wasn’t going to respond even if you did.”

“Oh please,” Arthur says, leaning back onto his elbows. “You are so full of shit. You were dying for me to reply.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, darling, but at the moment we met I had been very much trying to forget you,” Eames says. “I attempted to distract myself by buying that ridiculous car.”

“You bought the car yesterday?”

“Yes, of course. Did you think I was just that shit at driving? I’d only had it for about 20 minutes before I ran you off the sidewalk.”

“So, you emailed me—and then immediately went out and bought a car?”

“Yes,” Eames says, as though that is completely normal behavior.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Christ, Arthur, I don’t know,” Eames says, letting out a sigh. “After I sent you that message, I thought to myself, _you wanker—this cannot be what has become of your life, emailing rent boys at 9 P.M. on a Sunday.”_

“You really never paid for sex before?”

“Never,” Eames says. “I don’t exactly have a need for it. And I wasn’t emailing you for sex, I—well, I don’t know. I don’t know what I was emailing you for.” Eames smiles. “These are the very existential questions which led me into the arms of a Lamborghini salesperson.”

“Because buying a $200,000 dollar car is a totally normal way of dealing with your problems.”

“Precisely,” Eames says, ignoring the mockery in Arthur’s tone.

“But you asked me to go out with you again—when you almost ran me over, you asked,” Arthur says. “Why would you do that if you’d changed your mind?”

“Well at that point it was bloody fate, wasn't it?” Eames smirks sideways at him, taking a loud slurp of his milkshake. “Would’ve been quite the karmic misstep to ignore something like that.”

Eames gets up, clearing the debris off of the bed, along with the now messy sheet. He pulls out one of the plush blankets from the hotel armoire to replace it.

Arthur watches him, examining the naked lines of his skin.

“The tattoos,” Arthur says, “is that another form of distraction for you?”

Eames smiles at him, looking tired. “My tattoos are a whole other sort of story.”

Eames turns off the lights and climbs back into bed, settling next to Arthur under the covers. He runs a hand through Arthur’s hair, his fingers catching softly in the still-damp curls.

“I’d like to kiss you,” Eames says, casual, like he is asking Arthur to pass the salt.

“I don’t do that,” Arthur reminds him.

“I know,” Eames says, yawning. He slides his fingertips down Arthur’s arm.

“It’s a rule,” Arthur says, in a voice that’s part explanation, part apology, part something else. “It’s my rule.”

“Why?”

“Too intimate.”

“And this isn’t?” Eames asks, his thumb drifting circles over Arthur’s hipbone.

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, already half-asleep. “I’ve been breaking a lot of rules with you.”

“Have you?” Eames sounds delighted.

“Too many,” Arthur confirms, giving him a drowsy smile.

“Well,” Eames says, nuzzling the pillow, letting his eyes drift close, “I’m not one for rules myself, but if I had any, I’m sure I’d have broken them all for you.”

Within a minute, his breath evens out, falling low and heavy in the quiet between them.

Arthur looks at Eames. He takes the time to catalogue everything— the shape of his mouth, the composition of his tattoos, the particular way his muscles ease from one to another. Eames is always calling him gorgeous or lovely or whatever, but Arthur thinks he has it backwards. Arthur knows he isn’t bad-looking, but Eames is—

Arthur doesn’t know what Eames is, exactly. He’s never had a thought like this about someone. He doesn’t really know how to name it. He’s found men attractive, obviously, but this is a different thing. Eames is—

“Beautiful,” Arthur says, too low to be heard even if Eames were awake.

After what feels like a century of tentative hesitation, Arthur touches him.

He skims his knuckles over Eames’ skin in a cautious exploration—up the climb of a shoulder, down the slope of a rib. It’s clumsy, the touch. There is no finesse to it, no purpose.

It occurs to Arthur then that he’s never really touched someone without a purpose. There’s always been some kind of transaction at play; Arthur would touch someone and then that person would pay him, or someone would make Arthur come and then he’d return the favor. 

He hasn’t touched someone this way before—slow and easy, just to do it.

It’s nice, Arthur thinks. Nicer than he would have thought.

“Goodnight,” Arthur says, tipping his lips forward to meet a patch of ink at Eames’ shoulder.

It’s a stupid, sentimental thing to do. Arthur doesn’t know where the urge comes from, but he decides not to question the whole thing too much. Eames lets out a sleep-thick sigh at the contact and pulls Arthur closer.

Somewhere between telling himself he’s an idiot and deciding to just shut up and enjoy it, Arthur falls asleep. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The first thing Arthur is aware of the next morning is the sound of his own name being said.

“Arthur,” someone is repeating, soft and low, close to his ear.

“S’not time to be awake,” Arthur mumbles. Why is there someone in his bed? He’ll have to think about that more when he’s awake. “S’time to be asleep,” Arthur tells the intruder. “Go be asleep.”

“Arthur,” the same person says again, laughing softly. Stubble scrapes against the side of Arthur’s face, tickling him.

“S’too _early_ ,” Arthur complains, swatting at the scratch.

“Arthur,” the voice—Eames? Eames—says again. Arthur feels a warm, wide hand slide down his back, stroke over his ribs. “As much as I admire your ability to pull 15 hours of sleep in one go, we do need to get up.”

“ _Nnnnnnnnnnnn_ ,” Arthur whines. It means no. 

Eames laughs again, leaning in close. He kisses Arthur’s temple, his eyelids.

“Please,” Eames says, kissing the bridge of Arthur’s nose. “Please, wake up with me. There is coffee.”

Arthur squints one eye open.

“Coffee?” he asks suspiciously. 

“Loads,” Eames says, smiling. “I swear to it.” 

“Fine,” Arthur grumbles. He yawns wide and loud, right in Eames’ face.

“You are such a charming creature,” Eames says, wrinkling his nose at Arthur’s morning breath. “Truly.”

Arthur closes his eyes again, resettling into his pillow. “Never mind, s’too early,” he decides. Coffee or no coffee, the bed is way too comfortable to leave. He pulls Eames closer, humming contentedly at the new press of heat.

“Arthur,” Eames scolds, but lets himself be dragged in close. “That’s not playing particularly fair.”

“Whatever,” Arthur says, nuzzling into the bend of Eames’ neck.

Eames sighs, sliding two arms and a leg around Arthur.

They sleep.

  

***

  

“Good, I take it?”

“The coffee, or the sleeping in?” Arthur asks.

“The sleep.”

“Too good,” Arthur says, taking huge, scalding sips. “I forgot where I was.”

“Occupational hazard?”

“Not really,” Arthur says. “I don’t spend the night with clients.”

“Ah, yes,” Eames says, smiling. “One of those rule you’ve been breaking for me.”

“Considering how much you paid to be the exception, I figured you’d remember that one.”

“You’ve really never done?” Eames asks.

“Stayed the night with a john? Of course not,” Arthur says, swiping butter over the soft dough of his croissant. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“But they’ve asked?”

“A couple, yeah,” Arthur says. “But no one with half a brain would agree to it. It’s too dangerous.”

Arthur watches Eames stiffen almost imperceptibly.

“Is it—” Eames starts, holding his voice perfectly, purposely level. He sits his teacup down. “Has it ever been dangerous for you, this job?”

“Not really,” Arthur answers. “I’m careful.”

“How so?”

“Do you really want to talk about this?” Arthur asks, sensing that Eames is uncomfortable.

“I want to know,” Eames says.

Arthur explains it to him, the whole process—the research and the spreadsheets and the IP addresses and the (not exactly legal) database hacks he uses to run the information. He tells Eames about the outfits and the fake names, about how none of it’s real, about how that’s the point.

“Is your name not Arthur, then?” Eames asks. He laughs a little, but it comes out taut, strained.

“I told you my real name,” Arthur says, looking at his coffee cup and not at Eames.

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, because he really doesn’t. “But I haven’t lied to you once since I met you.”

“I believe you,” Eames says. Something in his voice makes Arthur look up.

Eames smiles at him. It’s brittle—too thin. It doesn’t touch his eyes.

“What is it?” Arthur asks.

“I just—I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know for what. I just am.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Arthur says, letting his coffee cup hit the saucer with a clang. “I choose to do this. No one makes me do it. That’s the whole point.”

“What is the point?”

“That I _control_ this. That I am in control of this,” Arthur says. “I know everything about these people before I fuck them, I pick the ones that I know are safe, it’s—I control it.” 

“I can see that. I can see you do all of it very well, Arthur, but I _don’t_ —”

Eames stops mid-sentence, letting his brow fall forward into his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words dropping hard at the end of a sigh. “We can stop talking about this if you like. It was rude of me to ask.”

“What were you going to say just now?”

“You’ll be cross at me if I say it.”

“When am I not _cross_ at you?” Arthur says, doing a terrible impersonation of Eames’ accent on the word _._ Eames gives him a real smile for that.

“I was going to say that I don’t want you to do it anymore,” Eames says. “Because you’re too gifted, too brilliant for it. But I stopped myself because I know I have absolutely no right to say something like that to you.” Eames pauses. “There are a dozen different reasons why I have no right."

“Well,” Arthur says, after a long, blank minute of silence. “At least you saved me the trouble of calling you a hypocrite.”

“I know,” Eames says. “I am very thoughtful that way.” He is clearly trying to make a joke, but it comes out heavy and worn.

Arthur sits his plate down on the table. He is about to get up, to go shower or get dressed or something, because he’s not sure what else to do. When he stands, Eames takes his hand, keeping him there.  

“It’s just—they don’t deserve you,” Eames says, thumbing over Arthur's knuckles, his voice gone rough. “Anyone who would take you just for an hour and not see—they don’t fucking deserve you, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, sifting through the dozen things that fall over him at once.

There’s bright, open pleasure at being called something worth deserving; skepticism that someone like Eames could think that about someone like him; embarrassment from feeling so exposed in front of another person; anger at Eames for being so fucking _sure_ all the time about shit he knows nothing about; boiling frustration over the fact that Eames doesn’t seem to understand that there is _isn’t_ anything better out there for Arthur, not really.

He settles on anger, because it seems like the safest of all the available options.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, okay,” Arthur says, pulling his hand away. “This is what I do. It’s the only thing I can do that makes any fucking sense, so just drop it.” 

“How can you say that?” Eames asks. “You’re so fucking smart, Arthur. You could be doing anything.”

“I am a high school dropout,” Arthur says. “I am a high school dropout with an _arrest_ _record_ , actually, and I’ve never had any money, never had any person to help me—so what the fuck do you think is out there for me to do? Do you think they hire car thieves with no GED to do any kind of half-way decent job?”

Eames looks at Arthur, his face sunk with such _obvious_ _fucking_ _pity_ that it makes Arthur want to punch him in the jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Arthur says.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m Tiny Tim or something.”

“You’re not Tiny Tim,” Eames says, trying for a smile. “But you are very wrong about yourself.”

“You met me two days ago, you don’t know anything about me.”

“Yes, I do,” Eames says, standing up. He looks at Arthur in that incisive, impossibly sharp way he does. “You know that I do.”

Arthur’s first instinct is to deny it, to rip Eames a new one for being so fucking presumptuous. He swallows it all down, though, because Eames is right.

It’s pathetic. It’s maybe the single most pathetic thing Arthur has ever had to admit to himself, but two days or not—Eames knows him. Better than Ariadne, better than anyone.

“I don’t need you to fix me,” Arthur says.

“I know that,” Eames says. “In fact, I suspect you’ve never needed anyone to do anything for you. But if you’d let me, I’d like to show you.”

“Show me what?”

“That you can do whatever you like.”  

Arthur snorts. “Okay, good luck with that.”

“Honestly, everything you’re talking about—it’s paper,” Eames says, stepping closer, touching his hands to Arthur’s hips. “It’s just paper, Arthur. I could forge you a diploma for any degree in the world in less than an hour. I know people who can seal your records, keep the past where it should be. Arrest records, court records, any of it can be altered. I can—I’ll make sure of it, if you’ll let me,” Eames says. “But it’s your choice. I won’t do anything unless you want it done.”

“Why would you do any of that for me?” Arthur asks, not understanding.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Eames says. 

“Because that’s a lot of effort to put in for some random hooker you—”

“Is that really how you think of yourself?” Eames interrupts. “As ‘some hooker’, full stop?”

“It’s—I don’t know. I don’t sit around thinking about what I think of myself.” 

“Arthur,” Eames says, running his knuckles up Arthur’s sides. “I have a business proposition for you.”

“Another one?”

“Yes.”

“What are you—”

“I’d like to hire you,” Eames says.

“You already did.”

“Not for—this is something else. I want to hire you as a consultant.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to hire you as a consultant on the case. Short-term, just a couple of days.”

“You’re only doing this because you’re on some mission to save me now,” Arthur says, dropping down into his chair with a huff.

“First off,” Eames says, sitting so that he’s level with Arthur, “I’d been planning to ask you this all morning, far before we started this conversation—that’s why I was trying to wake you. Second,” he continues, “I’d be completely daft not to ask. You are clearly cleverer than anyone I have working for me on this, and if I am going to pull the deal off, I need you. I’m not trying to save you, Arthur, I’m trying to save my own arse.”

Arthur tries to accept it, tries to wrap his head around the idea that Eames is asking him to do this because he really believes Arthur is capable, and not just out of some misplaced sense of pity.

“Whoever wrote that report _was_ pretty stupid,” Arthur thinks out loud, churning the whole thing over.

“It’s precisely that kind of blunt evisceration I need to bring into the office with me today. Say you’ll do it?”

“What does this consultant thing pay?” If there is one thing Arthur knows about business, it’s that you always ask about the money first.

“Depends. This sort of thing, strategic consulting, very top-level—probably billable at $1,500 an hour, round that.”

“Call it $2,000, and you’ve got a deal.”

“$1,850,” Eames counters.

“$2,000,” Arthur says again.

“$1,870,” Eames offers.

“$2,200,” says Arthur, just to be an asshole. 

“That’s not typically how negotiations work,” Eames says.

“It’s going to be $2,500 in a minute.”

“Christ, darling, you are a terror,” Eames says, smiling. “$2,000, final offer. But I’ll do you one better—if the deal goes through, I’ll give you the car.”

“You—what?”

“If Fischer really does have AustraCorps in the bag, my deal is dead on the doorstep as it is, so don’t get your hopes up too terribly high,” Eames says. “But if we do manage to pull it off, I’ll give you the car. Call it a bonus.”

“The _Lamborghini,_ the car?” Arthur asks, agog.

“I don’t even like the thing,” Eames says, not seeming to understand Arthur’s reaction. “Looks far better with you driving it, anyway.”

“You are so fucking stupid sometimes, do you know that?” Arthur says, not even trying to stop himself from beaming at Eames. “But if that’s the offer on the table, then I can personally guarantee I will find a way to fuck Fischer’s thing with AustraCorps and make your deal go through.”

“Not stupid of me at all then,” Eames says, smug. “Was clearly a brilliant motivational tactic on my part.”

“Fine, you’re a genius,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, smiling until his dimples crease.

Eames touches Arthur’s jaw, a contented sound rumbling up from his chest. He skims his thumb over Arthur’s smile. “Christ, I’d have given you 20 cars if I thought it’d make you this happy.”

“Just the one is good,” Arthur says, shoving down the too-bright thing he feels breaking open at the center of him. “And you’re not giving it to me, I’m earning it. I don’t want you just giving me things. This is a business agreement.”

“Yes,” Eames says. “Yes, of course. We have a deal then?”

“It’s a deal,” Arthur says, and holds out his hand.

Eames smiles, shakes it. 

“I do love a good negotiation,” he says, stroking his thumb over the back of Arthur’s hand, innuendo drenching his tone.

“No time for that,” Arthur says, but doesn’t pull his hand away. “Too much shit to get done.”

“Later then,” Eames promises. He lifts Arthur’s hand to his mouth and presses a messy kiss over his knuckles, all smile and teeth.

Arthur hates the way it makes something hot coil around the base of his spine. It’s really inconvenient to have finally found his libido or whatever with someone who is leaving the country in a couple of days and won’t have any reason to see Arthur after that.

“Later,” Arthur agrees, and tries not to think about any of it. 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Of course,” Eames says. 

“But I have no clue what the fuck I’m—”

“You’ll be brilliant, Arthur. Trust me.”

“What if one of them figures out who I am? I don’t—”

“How could they possibly do that?”

“They are a team of  _researchers_ , Eames.”

“Yes, but not particularly good ones, according to your assessment.”

“I said the report wasn’t good. That doesn’t mean there aren’t a couple of people in there with actual talent.”

“Arthur—that may be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Just shut up.”

“Whatever you want.”

He and Eames are standing side by side, facing the door Arthur hasn’t managed to open yet.

“Fine.” Arthur takes a slow, even breath.“Fine. Okay. I’m ready.”

“You really are going to be brilliant,” Eames says, his voice warm and low.

He reaches over and takes Arthur’s hand, letting their fingers fold together for a few seconds. Arthur tries not to feel like a dumbass for how much it makes his nerves settle.

He squeezes Eames’ hand—one quick pulse—and then lets it drop.

He pushes the door open.

 

 

***

 

 

Stepping inside the temporary L.A. offices of Sharpham Holdings feels like entering a warzone, and the war doesn’t seem to be going well.  

Eames read everyone the riot act last night after the dinner with Fischer and Browning, not-quite-yelling into his cell while Arthur drove them back to the hotel. It seems like most of the team has been here since then, working all night to dig up the details on whatever Fischer has going with AustraCorps.

There is a thick atmosphere of hostility hanging in the room—it’s obvious that a lot of blame has been shoved around as to why no one caught this sooner. And Arthur’s smooth lie about things being tied up in appropriations committees is only going to stall Fischer for so long, everyone knows.

Eames walks in and introduces Arthur to the team with just two pieces of information—that he is a new consultant on the case, and that he figured out AustraCorps and Fischer were working together with nothing but four hours and a laptop.

That shuts everybody up.

Arthur gets set up with a workstation on the perimeter of the space, slightly apart from the rest of the analysts and researchers. The whole place is insufferably L.A.—one of those excessively modern buildings with glass panel doors and chrome tape dispensers and Frank Stella prints on the wall.

“Not to your taste?” Eames asks, watching Arthur pick up a neon pink paperweight and frown at it.

“No,” Arthur answers. “Not really.”

“Because I was under the impression”—Eames casts a glance around the room, making sure no one is within hearing distance—“that you were something of a neon aficionado.”

“Are you going to bother me all day?” Arthur asks, tamping down a smile.  

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eames says, walking away, beaming over his shoulder at Arthur.

Just before he turns the corner, Eames winks. Arthur’s knees wobble like they’re made out of goddamn Jell-O.

 _I am so fucked_ , he realizes all at once, feeling the thing he believes to be his heart sputter and catch at the center of him. 

It turns out Mr. Charles was right.

This revelation promptly ruins the rest of Arthur’s day.

 

 

*** 

 

 

The morning passes in a blur of excel sheets, stock charts, and very black coffee. 

Arthur resolutely does _not_ think about Eames being charming or appealing or any of the other adjectives he is starting to associate with him at an alarming rate. Arthur thinks about Australian energy conglomerates, and nothing else.

The fact that he doesn’t see Eames all morning probably helps with this.

There are three things Arthur is attempting to do: pull apart the details of Fischer’s deal with AustraCorps, find the weak spots, and see what Eames can do—if anything—to shut it down. If they can’t stop it, Fischer will retain enough assets to halt the acquisition of Fischer-Morrow. And that’s it, game over.

Eames gave Arthur access to all of the data on the network drives, plus a hefty stack of his own handwritten notes, to help him get started. It’s a ton of material, but Arthur cuts through it cleanly, parsing what’s relevant from what isn’t at a steady clip.   

By the time lunch rolls around, Arthur hasn’t exactly cracked the case, but he has figured one thing out.

“You have a serious problem,” Arthur announces, walking into Eames’ ridiculously huge private office and shutting the door behind him.

“A new one?” Eames asks, his tone lazing somewhere between apathy and gloom.

“A big one,” Arthur says, slapping a thick folder onto Eames’ desk.

“Bigger than a billion dollar acquisition falling to pieces before my eyes?”

“This,” Arthur says, jamming a finger on top of the folder, “is the reason it’s falling apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your head of research is working for Fischer.”

Eames sits up in his chair. “Come again?”

“I was mostly joking when I said that yesterday,” Arthur explains, “but it’s true. Look at all this shit—”

Arthur flips the folder open, spreading the contents out onto Eames’ desk. There are encrypted emails from multiple accounts, invoices that don’t make sense, data that was found but then never written into any official report, travel expenses that match Fischer’s location on multiple dates. They’re the kind of things that, in isolation, wouldn’t raise a red flag—one oversight here, one wrong number there—but looking at it all together is like seeing a finished map with all the roads written in. 

“Christ,” Eames says. His fingertips blade over the paper, one document to the next, like he is physically connecting the dots.

“You need to get him out of here right now,” Arthur says. “He’s probably fed Fischer everything we’ve done today, but we can maybe salvage—”

 _“Alice,”_ Eames says into the speakerphone, his fingertip whitening where it presses down on the button. “Tell Nash I need to see him, right now.”

His voice hits the room like ice water, cold and drenching and dangerous. 

Arthur would have never thought Eames could be described as anything like cold or dangerous or completely fucking terrifying, but that’s exactly what he is right now. There is a deep, practiced chill in his voice, and Arthur can’t help but wonder how it got there. It makes him realize he doesn’t actually know that much about Eames.

“Is it only him, or could there be others?” Eames asks, watching through the glass as Nash crosses the office.

“Impossible to say. But everything links to him,” Arthur explains. “Besides, it wouldn’t make sense for Fischer to have paid off anyone else. Nash had access to everything, so what would be the point?”

“He did have access to everything, didn’t he,” Eames says, more to himself than to Arthur.

Nash walks in then, and Arthur hates him immediately. He has a cocky lope to his step, a too-proud tip to his chin, and a sharp little rat face that Arthur wants to smack sideways with a tire iron.

“Nash,” Eames says, his voice scraping subzero. “Sit down.”

“What’s going on?” Nash asks, not sitting.

“I was about to ask you the same.”

Nash flicks his gaze between Arthur and Eames. “What is this—”

“Tell me,” Eames says, terrifyingly calm. “How good, exactly, was the money?”

Arthur watches Nash’s face fall five shades paler.

“I’m curious, of course, because you are already paid rather a lot of money to work for me,” Eames says, “so I can only imagine how much Fischer must be paying you to turn all that work to shit.”

“You think I’m working for Fischer?” Nash says, his face flooded with feigned confusion. “What the fuck, Eames? I’d never—”

“Spare us, please,” Eames says. “Whatever fiction you have prepared isn’t—”

“Did he tell you this?” Nash points a finger to Arthur. “Because I’ve worked with you for four years and he got here four hours ago, so it seems pretty goddamn convenient—”

“He didn’t have to tell me a thing,” Eames says, gesturing to the evidence splayed across his desk. “You were much sloppier than you thought you were. Not that this should be surprising, considering—”

“But who the _fuck_ is he?” Nash spits, regarding Arthur like he is a pile of dog shit that was left out in the sun too long. "How do you know he isn’t the one working for Fischer? He could’ve spent the morning doctoring all this paperwork to make it look like it was me just to—”

“He is not working for Fischer.”

“But how do you—”

“Because I know,” Eames says, with an icy finality.

“Oh, I get it,” Nash says, a foul edge to his voice. “You’re fucking him, right? I guess it was about time you got yourself a new toy—”

“You’re fired,” Eames says, done with the conversation. “Walk out of this building in the next sixty seconds or be dragged out, entirely up to you.”

Nash just stands there, his body one tall, taut line of fury. He stares at Arthur, his expression bent almost to a snarl.

“It was Browning that paid me, not Fischer,” Nash says, all the fake innocence draining from his voice. He turns to look at Eames. “And the money was fucking amazing. Thanks for asking.”

Nash storms out, smacking things off of desks and knocking over a paper shredder on his way toward the exit. He gives Arthur one last lacerating glare before kicking the door closed behind him.

The entire room turns to look at Eames.

“It’s—come to light,” Eames says, clearing his throat and stepping out into the middle of the room so he can address everyone, “that Nash has been working for Fischer-Morrow for some time.” The whole place floods with shocked murmurs.

“I’m not going to lie to any of you about how dire this is,” Eames continues, “but the facts are what they are. All that matters at this point is that we continue on. Arthur—”

Eames turns to him.

“—will be in charge of this case moving forward. Any status reports you were brining to Nash please bring to him.”

Panic slams into Arthur like a fist to the gut.

He ticks through a quick succession of almosts—almost running for the exit, almost pretending he didn’t hear it, almost punching Eames in the face, almost bursting into tears because how the _fuck_ could Eames think he is capable of something like this? Arthur is a nobody, he is fucking _no one,_ and what? He’s supposed to be in charge of a room full of Harvard MBAs without any of them noticing he has no goddamn clue what he’s doing?

 _I am going to fuck the whole thing up_ , Arthur thinks, watching the room spin.

He realizes then that everyone, including Eames, is waiting for him to say something.

Arthur does the only thing he knows how—he takes the panic, folds it up, makes the creases sharp and neat, and shoves it into that dimly lit corner of himself where he puts all the things he needs to forget. 

He lets his $10,000 suit feel like armor, and—

“Everyone should do a security dump immediately. Start a wipe of all temporary data, change your passwords and encryptions, and flag any information Nash requested from you in the last 24 hours. Make sure anything you flag gets ported to me; I’ll need to review it.” Arthur’s voice comes out calm, even, sure. “And once everyone is back online, we’re shifting focus. We need to find something we can use as leverage against either Fischer or AustraCorps, something that could force one or both of them to back out of the deal. Start by going over the files—not the finished reports, the raw data—and figure out what Nash purposely left out of the research. That’s what’s going to be important.”

Arthur is half-expecting a tomato to be thrown at him. He’s sure someone is going to laugh him out of the room, at the very least.

But the second he stops talking, everyone moves.  

They are all doing exactly what he said.

Arthur turns to Eames. The look on his face is something Arthur can’t even begin to describe. It’s this gorgeous blur of astonishment and awe and _appetite_ and it makes Arthur feel—

“We need to talk, right now,” Arthur says, suddenly remembering how fucking pissed he is at Eames.

“Of course,” Eames says, leading the way back to his office. Eames hits a button that lowers the shades on the glass paneling when they walk inside, giving them privacy.

As soon as they’re obscured from view, Arthur rounds on Eames. He shoves Eames back against the wall, pressing a hand flat against his chest to pin him there.

“Don’t ever,” Arthur says, low and sharp, “pull a stunt like that again.”

“But you were so brilliant,” Eames says, his smirk shameless.  

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Arthur says, shoving the heel of his palm hard against Eames’ sternum. Eames grunts, but doesn’t try to push Arthur off. “You don’t get to do that—to corner me into things.”

“You are the only person here,” Eames says, his breath hot on Arthur in the close proximity, “that I am absolutely certain is not working for Fischer.”

“You put me in charge of a billion dollar case because of that?”

“That, and,“ Eames says, clawing a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, fingers spearing into his hair, “I knew you were the best.”

“How can you think shit like that about me?” Arthur says in a rush, letting his eyes slam closed. Eames leans forward and noses under his ear.

“Because it’s true, you bloody idiot.” Eames nips at the skin just above Arthur’s perfectly starched collar. 

Arthur’s hand—the one that was pinning Eames to the wall—sinks lower of its own accord, curling around Eames’ hip.

Eames sighs heavy at the contact, pulls Arthur closer. “I should have asked you,” Eames says, his teeth dragging against the curve of Arthur’s throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Arthur breathes, all the anger crumbling off of him.

Eames shifts his leg between Arthur’s. The slow slide of friction makes Arthur’s vision blur.

“This seems unprofessional,” Arthur pants, when Eames does it a second time.

“I think it’s fair to say,” Eames suggests, his voice rough and low, “that you and I have a rather unique working relationship.”

He bites hard at the blade of Arthur’s jaw, and Arthur whines, his hips rolling.

The whole thing is filthy and wanton and _good_ , way too good. It’s everything Arthur’s been trying not to think about since this morning. He wants Eames, but it’s not just that, it’s so much worse than that.

He _likes_ Eames, for Christ’s sake.

Arthur has fucked more men than he can count, but he’s never liked any of them. Not this way, not once. And of course, _of course_ , the first time it happens, it’s _this—_ something impossible, with someone impossible.

“We need to get back,” Arthurs says, forcing himself to pull a few inches away from Eames. “I don’t know if you heard, but some asshole put me in charge of this huge corporate—”

“Arthur,” Eames says, still touching him.

Eames tips his head forward so that he is right there, right at eye-level with Arthur. They’re passing the same two inches of air back and forth now, and Arthur knows, can see, that Eames wants to kiss him. And the dangerous, terrible part is that Arthur wants to kiss back this time, with tongue and teeth and the rest of it.

It’s a disaster.

“Come on,” Arthur says, separating himself fully from Eames. “There is a ton of shit to get done. And this is your thing, in case you forgot, or did you plan to make me CEO too?”

“Arthur,” Eames says again, quiet, like something might break if he’s too loud.

“What?” Arthur asks. His fingers curl against his palms like they’re still searching for a handful of Eames.

“Nothing,” Eames says, clearing his throat. His voice rises back to normal. “You’re right, of course, we should go back—“

“There is a Lamborghini hanging in the balance here,” Arthur says, keeping his tone light. He smiles at Eames.

Eames smiles back. Then he straightens his tie, and smooths out his hair, and it only takes a few seconds for him to make it as though Arthur’s hands were never on him.

Arthur feels shipwrecked, watching himself be so neatly erased.

They get to work. 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

It’s 1 A.M. by the time they call it a day.

Despite the fact that the team did an insane amount of work, they are still nowhere. It is maddening, and Arthur can see the frustration held tightly in the lines of Eames’ face, like he’s been working a knot that just won’t budge.

Eames is quiet on the drive back to the hotel.

“There is one thing,” Arthur says, as he slows at a red light.

“Hmm?” Eames responds, staring out the window.

“There is one thing I found that might be useable. I couldn’t bring it up at the office.”

“What is that?” Eames asks, shifting his eyes to Arthur.

“Fischer is gay,” Arthur says. “He has someone he sees in St. Tropez, someone in Brisbane, maybe others too.”

“We can’t use that,” Eames says, turning back to the window.

“I didn’t say we should use it,” Arthur says, gripping at the wheel. “I said it might be useable. It could be the only leverage we find. I’m sure Fischer wouldn’t want his wife finding out about—”

“It’s not his wife he’d care about knowing,” Eames says. “It’s his father. Robert would pitch himself out a window before he let Maurice find out.”  

“That sounds like leverage to me,” Arthur says.

Eames turns in his seat to face him.

“What do you think of me?” Eames asks. “I am not going to ruin Robert’s life, his relationship with his father, just because I want a business deal to go—”

“Is that the actual reason?” Arthur asks, the words tight in his throat. “Or is it because you and Robert used to be together?”

Eames inhales hard, looking at Arthur.

“That,” Eames says, “was a very long time ago.”

“But I’m right.”

“You are, naturally,” Eames says, giving Arthur a tired smile. “How did you manage to sort this out?”

“I was looking into Robert’s background, seeing if there was anything we could use. I noticed that his family summered where you lived, that your parents moved in the same circles. You had to have known each other,” Arthur explains. “Then I thought about what you did at dinner, touching me like that to get a rise out of him. I just—put it together.”

“You are very good at that,” Eames says, bringing a hand up to trace the shape of Arthur’s jaw.

“Eames—”

“Arthur, what I do—it’s not a noble profession,” Eames says. “I’ve met thieves more honest than the most honest CFO I‘ve worked with. And truth be told, I’m ashamed of myself more than half the time for it. The people I put out of work when we close a company, the money I make for arseholes already too rich for their own good, it’s—”

Eames sighs, dumping his head in his hands.

“It’s shit. All of it is shit, and I do it anyway,” Eames says, pushing his fingers through his hair. “But this is too far. I won’t tear apart Robert’s personal life just to land his company.”

“Why do you do this job if you hate it so much?” Arthur asks, because the question is burning on his tongue.  

Eames lifts his head to look at him. He is smiling, just a little.

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that, you know.”

Arthur remembers it. He remembers Eames hunched over a messy desk on the first night they met—remembers thinking how miserable he looked.

“Are you going to give me a bullshit answer again?” Arthur asks, thinking of how smoothly Eames sidestepped the question last time.

Eames turns back to the window. His eyes follow the passing cars. “Robert isn’t the only one who has a complicated relationship with his father. Let’s leave it at that.”

“But your father is dead.” The words are out of Arthur’s mouth before he can call them back. Eames doesn’t look at him.

“That,” Eames says, tipping his head against the glass, “is part of why it is complicated.”

Silence settles over the car, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do. He hates that Eames is so guarded, so shut down next to him. He finds himself aching for Eames’ easy affection. He even misses Eames’ ridiculousness—the terrible jokes and the arched eyebrows and all the dripping innuendo. He’d take any of it over this uneasy quiet.

Arthur is about to flip on the radio, desperate for anything to fill the air, when he realizes something.

Eames has walls up, thick and hard and high, exactly the same as Arthur.

He’s just so much better at hiding them.

Arthur’s walls are fearful things. They are covered in barbed wire, primed with sniper towers, and painted over with giant red signs that say KEEP OUT. Eames throws garden parties in front of his. He grows ivy all over them, plants huge flowering trees in front of them, builds ferris wheels, throws parades, paints murals. Anything to make sure you never, ever notice they’re there.

Arthur gets it now, how lovely the lie is—how fully constructed. It’s genius, honestly. No one goes looking for cracks in a wall they can’t see.

Eames sags his weight against the car door then, and Arthur can’t help but wonder how many people have been allowed this—to see Eames when he is quiet and small, without all his bluster, all his bright armor.

Arthur wonders how he, of all people, is here, trusted with it.

“Eames,” Arthur says. Eames looks at him.

Arthur takes his hand. He doesn’t make a thing of it—he just pulls Eames’ hand into his own and slots their fingers together. He keeps driving.

He has to occasionally shift his hold on Eames’ hand to work the gearshift, but Eames doesn’t let go, and neither does Arthur. They let the silence happen. 

Arthur can’t be sure, but he thinks Eames is smiling now, very faintly, as he watches the city go by.

 

 

***

 

 

Eames says he wants to be alone for a while. Arthur doesn’t argue it.

He goes off, presumably to wander around the hotel somewhere, and Arthur heads up to their room. He strips out of his suit and takes a lazy, hot shower. Eames still isn’t back by the time he’s done.

Arthur tries to sleep, but he is too wound up for it. He ends up tossing and turning for twenty minutes, during which time he comes to the alarming conclusion that the hotel bed feels wrong without Eames wrapped around him like a weed.

He decides to go work out, because he hasn’t done it in days, and he figures that will at least burn off some of his pent up energy.

He rummages through a couple of drawers, looking for something gym-suitable to borrow, and finds a pair of Eames’ too-big sweat pants and a faded grey t-shirt that feels soft under his fingers. Arthur briefly considers pressing the shirt to his face and getting a rush off the smell of Eames.

With a sudden burst of terror, he wonders if this is what falling in love with someone feels like.

Arthur does not smell the t-shirt.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur’s workout is incredible, both because the equipment in the hotel gym is so good and because absolutely no one else is there.

He’s walking down a long hallway towards the elevators, stretching his sweaty arms above his head, when he hears something. As he gets closer, he realizes it’s the sound of a piano being played.

He follows the music until he’s standing in the doorway of a huge banquet hall—something the hotel must use for weddings or parties or something. The place is empty aside from a couple of janitors who are stopped dead in their tracks, just like Arthur, listening.

It takes almost a full minute for Arthur to realize that the person at the piano is Eames.

He is not tinkering with the keys, the way you might expect someone to do in a dim room at two in the morning. He is playing with energy and intent, filling the air with rich, layered sound. Arthur doesn’t know anything about music, but he knows, listening to Eames, that whatever he’s playing is complex and beautiful and dark.

He watches Eames command the long row of keys for ten minutes, twenty minutes, maybe more. He feels riveted to the floor. He loses his grip on time. It isn’t until the last note stretches out, relaxing into the quiet of the room, that Eames looks up and sees Arthur. 

A strange sort of panic hits him, like maybe he wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t supposed to see this. He feels, for a moment, like he’s intruded on something private.

Then Eames smiles at him, open and warm. It floods Arthur like sunlight.

“I didn’t know you played,” Arthur says, walking over to him, and it’s ridiculous, because of course he didn’t know Eames played the piano. He doesn’t know shit about Eames, it turns out.

“Consequence of a particularly dull childhood,” Eames explains, his fingers brushing appreciatively over the keys. “This and the language lessons where the only bits I took to.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Arthur asks, because Eames is talking again, and Arthur doesn’t want him to stop.

“Enough to make trouble in all sorts of interesting places,” Eames says, and winks at him.

Arthur is almost knocked off his feet by how much he wants Eames, for that wink, for music he just played, for thinking Arthur was worth more than dirt when Arthur didn’t really believe it himself.

He steps forward and straddles Eames on the piano bench. Arthur gives the room a quick scan, confirming that the janitors have long since gone. They are alone.

“Arthur,” Eames says, with caution and surprise, his hands falling to Arthur’s hips.

“I want you _,”_ Arthur says, bending down to spill the words into Eames’ ear. It isn’t as terrifying as he thought it would be, to say it out loud.

 _“Fuck,_ Arthur,” Eames breathes, hands gripping hard at his hipbones.

Then Arthur is in the air, being lifted up and spread out on top of the piano. His feet meet the keys with a hard clang.

Eames is half standing, half on top of him, when he reaches up to cup Arthur’s face in both of his hands. It looks, for a moment, like he is going to kiss Arthur, like he is finally going to lean in and take him, and Arthur knows it’s a lost cause—that even though it’d make things unbearable when Eames leaves in two days, Arthur would let him do it. But Eames doesn’t. He just pauses, holds Arthur in his hands, and looks at him. Then he kisses across Arthur’s cheekbone, and lower, against the rise of his chin, and lower, against the prone curve of his throat. And Arthur falls apart.

“Upstairs, take me upstairs,” he begs, his voice shaking, because Arthur is going to tell Eames to fuck him right here, bare, with nothing but spit for lube, if this goes on even three seconds longer.

“Yes,” Eames growls. Arthur smashes the piano keys in a rush to get to his feet, but they barely notice the ugly split of sound, too busy crowding each other out of the room. Eames is never more than a few inches behind as they run down the hall, his breath hot on the back of Arthur’s neck. They collide in front of the elevator doors, both their hands jutting forward to hit the call button, again and again and again.

The elevator is too slow, impossibly slow, so they make a run for the stairs. It’s a terrible idea, because they have to make it up nine floors and they’re panting and drenched with sweat by the end, but Arthur would do it again if it meant having Eames slam him down onto the bed that much faster.

“I _hate_ this fucking shirt,” Arthur grinds out, because Eames is still in his suit from earlier and the buttons are too goddamn tiny and it’s taking twice as long for him to get naked as it’s taking Arthur.

“Feeling is entirely mutual,” Eames gasps. Arthur palms him roughly over his ruined slacks.

They tear their clothes out of the way, and Eames is rolling on a condom and pressing Arthur open with two fingers all at the same time, and it’s still not fast enough. Arthur—who likes things slow, careful, neat, predictable—barely recognizes himself through this heavy haze of need _._ But when Eames slams inside of him with a cry, it feels like driving down Mulholland again—that same untamed frenzy, that raw-edged ecstasy. And Arthur knows now that there are two things he likes doing too fast instead of just one.

Arthur grinds down to meet Eames, matching his pace, deepening his thrusts. It’s brutal and reckless and he wants them to fuck like this every time—too hard, all high beams, running every red light to get at each other. Arthur’s sure they’ll shake apart the bed, but he holds on, grips into Eames, wondering how bright the bruises on Eames’ shoulders are going to be tomorrow.

They try and say things to each other, but the words end up torn to pieces. They come out as shards of sound—a groan that means _yes_ , a whine that means _please,_ a hard, wet pant that means _more, more._

Eames has Arthur under him, bending him almost in half by the end, and Arthur comes so hard the world goes blank and soundless for a minute. It’s only after, when he feels how raw his throat is, that he realizes he must have screamed his way through it.

Eames comes apart a minute later, and Arthur is recovered from his own orgasm just enough to watch it happen. Eames slams his eyes shut, buries his head into the bend of Arthur’s shoulder, leaves sweat and teeth marks and shockingly soft words right there, right in the crook of Arthur’s neck.

When Eames comes, Arthur arches up, feeling the quake of it all the way to his bones. 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur wakes up gloriously sore and, somehow, still tired.

He reaches out, his sleep-drunk arms seeking Eames without thought. All he finds is cool sheets next to him.

He cracks one eye open to survey the room. Eames is gone. 

Arthur groans, rolling over to sink further under the comforter. That’s when he feels something crinkle under his hip. He gropes down the bed, trying to grab for the offending object. He catches it between his fingers and slides it lazily up the bed until it’s right in front of his face. It’s a piece of paper.

 

_presenting you with irrefutable evidence that you do, in fact, sleep like the dead_

_(press play xx)_

The note makes no sense to Arthur. That is, until he rolls a little further and feels the hard, smooth screen of his phone under him.

Arthur sighs, picks up the phone, and unlocks it with the sloppy swipe of a finger. He sees that there is a video, right there, set on pause. He cracks his other eye open and presses play.

 _“Darling,”_ Eames says from the screen—he is still in bed, his voice rough from sleep, but his tone is animated, eager. “Had an epiphany about the Fischer case. I want to get into the office straight away, but it’s far too early and I can’t possibly wake you—” Eames tips the phone to the left to demonstrate his point, and Arthur watches himself come into the frame.

He is stuck to Eames like a fucking barnacle. His arms are coiled possessively around him, one wrapped across his ribs, the other curled under his shoulder. He watches himself snuffle just a little, nestling into the bend of Eames’ neck. His hair is a mess. His expression is guileless, slack with sleep. Arthur barely recognizes himself. His face is nothing but soft, open trust. It’s—

“As you can see,” Eames says from the screen, stroking a hand through the wild of Arthur’s hair, looking at the sleepy mess of him like it’s beautiful, “you are entirely indisposed.” Eames glances back up to the camera. “But come meet me at the office once you wake up properly, yeah?”

Video-Arthur lets out a hideously loud snore then, and Eames laughs. 

“You are so charming, you really are,” Eames says quietly, and mostly to himself. He leans over and kisses the dip of Arthur’s temple just as the recording goes shaky and shuts off.

Arthur isn’t sure Eames meant for that last part to make it into the video. He can’t stop looking at it, though. The way the final frame rests on a blurry image of Eames pressing his lips to Arthur’s skin, with Arthur curling even further into Eames at the touch. It’s—

Arthur gets up before he lets himself finish that thought.

He pulls on a pair of pajama pants that are inky black and move against his skin like water. He stretches, feeling a welcome, warm ache all over, and pads his way out into the main room. 

There is coffee, fruit, and croissants sitting on the table, waiting for him. Tipped against the coffee pot is another note, written in the same messy scrawl.

 

_morning xxxxxxx_

 

Arthur smiles at it, stupidly wide.

He pours himself a cup of black coffee, sits two croissants on a plate, and rewatches the video. He lingers over the last frame, feeling something heavy swell under his ribs. No one has ever looked at Arthur the way Eames is looking at him.

He drinks his coffee in slow sips, and watches it again.

He stops himself just before hitting play a fifth time. He stops because he realizes—with a finality that should be comforting, but instead feels impossibly bleak—that this can’t happen. 

It just can’t.

Arthur likes facts. Facts are neat, certain, sharp. These are the facts that Arthur knows:

  1. Eames hired Arthur as an employee for the length of five days.
  2. Eames told Arthur when he offered him the job that—though he liked Arthur, quote, “very much”—he was not interested in anything romantic.
  3. It is clear that any and all "romantic entanglements" are entirely unwanted. So much so that Eames was willing to pay $50,000 just to avoid them.
  4. Arthur was hired specifically because he is a professional.
  5. Arthur is, in fact, being paid for every minute he spends with Eames.
  6. Regardless of how Arthur might feel—or how much he might be enjoying the services he performs—it does not alter the fact that Arthur is being paid for his time and his services.
  7. Arthur is not Eames’ lover; he is not Eames’ boyfriend; he is not Eames’ friend. He is Eames’ employee. 
  8. Today is Wednesday.
  9. Eames is leaving on Friday.
  10. Eames rarely does business in Los Angeles, and it is entirely likely that Arthur will never see him again.  



And that, really, is all there is to it.

Arthur showers and gets dressed, taking his time to make sure his tie is perfectly straight, that the line of his jacket is just so. He heads downstairs, calls for the car, and drives to the office to meet Eames.

This is his _job,_ and he’ll be damned if he can’t keep his shit together and be a professional for two days. Because he can. No matter how he feels about Eames, no matter what he wants, no matter how sloppy all of this is threatening to make him—he can do his job.

Arthur walks into Eames’ office, perfectly professional and put-together. He refuses to let his breath hitch at how gorgeous Eames looks bent over paperwork in dark blue pinstripes.

“Hey,” Arthur says. Eames looks up and beams at him.

Arthur smiles back, but he makes sure to keep his expression controlled. He refuses to let the wild, wide grin he wants to give Eames break loose across his face. His stupid crush is out of control enough as it is.

“So, what’s this brilliant idea?” Arthur asks, ignoring the way everything under his skin is screaming for him to touch Eames.

“It’s—” Eames stops, like he’s waiting for Arthur to say something else. His smile falters almost imperceptibly. “It was your idea, actually, that made me think of it.”

Eames gestures for Arthur to come over and look at the documents on his desk.

“What am I supposed to be seeing here?” Arthur asks.

Eames doesn’t answer, just smiles wolfishly, like he recently figured out how to use a paperclip to make the earth spin backwards. “Take a look.”

Arthur quickly flips through the documents—they’re reports, all issued by the Australian government. They cover everything from building skyscrapers to selling shipyards.

“Any idea what these have in common?” Eames prompts.

“They’re all… really fucking long?” Arthur suggests, lifting up one of the thick volumes and dropping it back on the table with a thud.

“True,” Eames says, his eyes intent. “But not what I was referring to. Anything else?”

Arthur flips through the reports, trying to figure out what Eames is getting at.  While he digs through the paperwork, Eames starts rubbing slow circles into his back. It’s a soothing, mindless sort of touch, and Arthur isn’t sure Eames even knows he’s doing it.

Arthur stiffens, because this won’t end well.

If Eames keeps touching him like that—keeps smoothing that slow, soft trail up his spine—Arthur is going to make Eames to fuck him on the desk. And then Arthur is going to get all sloppy and emotional about it, because, apparently, he is incapable of having sex with Eames without feeling _everything_. 

Arthur moves one small step to the left, breaking the touch. He makes sure to do it casually, like he’s just shifting his weight. He hopes Eames won’t think anything of it.

Eames lets his hand drop. 

“Okay, can I get a hint or something?” Arthur asks. There are 5,000 pages of insanely specific government nonsense spread in front of him and it’s just not—  

“These are reports from the last dozen or so appropriations committees that were called regarding new initiatives,” Eames explains.

“Appropriations?” Arthur asks. “But we checked into that—it’s impossible for us to get a committee called on such short notice. We’re lucky Fischer even bought that line when I came up with it at dinner.”

“That’s just it,” Eames says, moving closer to Arthur, “Fischer believed you. He _still_ believes you—his team, his lawyers, they’ve all been making inquiries since that dinner. I checked in with our contacts at the Australian legislature this morning, and they told me Browning is scared bloody _shitless_ , won’t stop calling. He thinks we managed to arrange some secret, lock-door committee that’s running behind the scenes.”

“But Nash would’ve told them that isn't true. He knows we never had any committee—”

“Yes, I’m sure Nash told them everything he knows,” Eames says, still smiling. “But what do you think Browning asked him first-thing when he slithered his way to their offices yesterday?”

“Shit,” Arthur says, suddenly understanding. “It’s me, isn’t it? Browning would’ve asked who I was and where I came from, and Nash couldn’t tell him. Nash didn’t know.”

“Precisely,” Eames says, triumphantly smug. “You’re the one who knew about the AustraCorps deal, and you’re the one who mentioned burying the deal in a committee. Nash didn’t know a thing about either, and doesn’t know a thing about you. I’m sure Browning is wondering what else he doesn’t know.”

“That turncoat piece of shit is probably our best asset right now,” Arthur marvels, huffing a laugh. “The fact that he can’t tell them anything about what they really want to know—”

“—makes them believe you and I have a brilliant plan already in place, one that we’re playing close to the vest.”

“So, what does this mean?” Arthur asks, his body buzzing. “What can we do with this?”

“We can use it,” Eames says. “We can play them, stall them just long enough to come up with something clever. Which brings me to—”

Eames flips open one of the reports, skimming his way to a specific footnote. He pushes it towards Arthur, his finger pressed to one particular sentence.

“Read this,” Eames says.

“ _If a new initiative is projected to be funded with more than 5% of any sector’s total assets, a member of the Upper or Lower House can call for a committee to be formed before the distribution of funds is_ —holy shit,” Arthur says, his eyes ripping through the rest of the paragraph. “This pretty much says that if the funding for any deal is above a certain number, an appropriations review can be called, regardless of the timeline. It doesn’t matter if the deal is an hour from closing.”

“Exactly,” Eames says, his smile sharp and pleased. “I found the loophole this morning. Browning was so convinced we’d gotten a committee review called, I knew there had to be a way.”

“So, this—fuck, this means we still have time to bury the deal?” Arthur asks. “My bluff, we can actually do it?”

“It’s possible,” Eames temporizes, but the spark in his voice makes Arthur think he’s already got the whole thing figured out. “We ran the numbers, and the AustraCorps deal qualifies for a committee review if we can get one called. But that means we’d have to find a representative with the bollocks to do it, who Browning hasn’t already paid off.”

“Shit. Can we do that?” Arthur asks, hungry for this to happen now that they’re so close. “What are the chances Browning’s already bought off the entire fucking Australian legislature?”

“Almost certain,” Eames says, scratching the back of his neck, “but I’ve got a hunch how we can get around that.”

“How do you—”

“Someone owes me a favor,” Eames says, his smile all mischief. He pulls out his cell and punches in a number.

“Cobb,” Eames says, when the line picks up. “I—no, bloody hell it’s not about—I need you to do something for me. You remember Freddy Simmonds? That bastard we did the Canberra job for back in—yes, exactly. Listen—”

Eames starts talking with this Cobb person about a bunch of things Arthur only half understands—Australian parliamentary procedures and current subcommittee hierarchies and the most expensive bathhouses in Brisbane and some job that went horribly wrong in Cairo once, which means that Cobb owes Eames for _life,_ and he shouldn’t forget it.

The conversation is a long, loud blur, but Eames hangs up the phone with a smile on his face.

“For all that Cobb is more trouble than he’s worth,” Eames says, “he can be a saving grace on occasion.”

“What, exactly, happened in Cairo?” Arthur asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Eames says, winking and walking out of the room. Arthur follows dumbly behind him, recognizing that Eames is on a mission and it’d be best for Arthur just to go along for the ride.

“Jenna, my love,” Eames says, approaching a desk at the end of the hall. “Do you have the numbers on the AustraCorps backing that I—”

“Right here,” she says, handing him a thick file.

“You’re heaven-sent, you really are,” Eames says, taking it from her and walking past Research and off towards Analytics. Arthur follows, and follows some more, and he starts to understand the articles he read about Eames, about why all the reporters called him a wunderkind, an untamed genius.

Eames works like lighting—a powerful storm of heat and energy, in bright, brilliant bursts. It’s up to everyone else to deal with the thunder afterward.

“Who is Cobb?” Arthur asks, as they make their way back to Eames’ office, each with an overflowing armful of binders.

“You know, Cobb. He helped you get set up with Mal for the suits and the—” Eames drops his pile of papers onto the desk with a crash. “Oh bloody hell. You weren’t supposed to know that.”

“Know what?” Arthur asks, stacking his binders neatly on the tabletop. 

Eames looks at him. Then he walks over to the door, and shuts it. He lowers the shades on the glass.

“Arthur,” Eames says, turning around and leaning back against the closed door. “The thing is—Cobb is Mr. Charles.”

“What, Cobb is his first name?” Arthur asks.

“No,” Eames says, with an unreadable smile on his face. “No, Cobb is his real name. Mr. Charles is just a ridiculous alias he insists on using.”

“He—what are you talking about?”

“Cobb is a thief, Arthur.”

“He—what—”

“A very particular kind of thief,” Eames explains. “Cobb steals information.”

Arthur’s mouth flaps open soundlessly, and then shuts again. Eames continues.

“Cobb’s been working at the hotel under the alias of Mr. Charles for the last four months, gathering intel on some diplomat’s son who lazes about there. I’m not sure what job he’s running, exactly, but for some reason this tweed-wearing little terror is the key to it all.” Eames rolls his eyes. “Not even worth asking about, really.”

“Mr. Charles is—“ Arthur starts, not sure what to say. He drops down into the nearest chair. “Wait, how do you know all this?”

“Because Cobb and I are friends, after a fashion,” Eames says. “And we used to work together.”

“You used to—“ Arthur tries again, but still can’t find the words.

“Arthur, for someone whose current profession is markedly illegal, you seem to be taking this rather poorly.”

“No, I don’t give a shit that he’s a—I’m just,” Arthur sputters. “What about Mal?”

“Mal works with him,” Eames says. “And they’re mad for each other. I think they’ve been married four or five times now. They try and pretend it’s all so bloody romantic, but I suspect they do it for the gifts.”

“Mal—so, she—she’s also a—”

“Yes, she is,” Eames confirms, without forcing Arthur to struggle through the rest of his sentence. “Arthur, are you alright?”

“Yes—yeah, I’m just. _What_?”

“Sweet, sweet Arthur,” Eames says, his voice soaked in sarcasm. “I know you’re a perfect petal of innocence, so it must be traumatizing for you to discover you’ve been surrounded by criminals and degenerates of the worst—”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, regaining his hold on reality. “It’s—I’m fine. I just needed a second to, whatever, process.”

“Oh good. I was afraid you were about to—”

“Wait,” Arthur says abruptly, cutting off Eames. “Wait. You said you worked with Cobb. What does that mean? Did you hire him and Mal to get information for you or something?”

“Ah—no,” Eames says. His tone is different now, all the playfulness gone. “No, not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?”

Eames lingers by the door for a minute. Then he walks over, and sits down next to Arthur.

“I’m not—” Eames starts, and stops again. “I’ve never explained this part of my life to anyone. I don’t quite know where to begin.” His voice is tentative. Arthur hates how fragile this feels, like Eames wants to hand him something but is afraid it will break the moment it leaves his fingers.

“You can trust me, you know,” Arthur tells him. He means it, down to his marrow. 

Eames smiles, soft and a little bit distant. “I know.”

“I won’t give a shit, whatever it is,” Arthur promises. “You already know about me, about what I do. How much worse can it be?”

Eames looks at Arthur, taking the measure of him. It’s a long moment before he speaks.

“I’ve broken every law you can think of,” Eames says, his words clear and deliberate. “I’ve lived under a dozen names that aren’t my own. I’ve shot people—though I assure you they entirely deserved it. I’ve stolen more things than you could fit into this room.” Eames pauses. “I would do it all again tomorrow.”

The words fall heavy and irrevocable between them. Eames waits, his eyes on Arthur.

Arthur’s mind skims over the research he did on Eames, trying to make this fit. He remembers one small detail—about Eames leaving Oxford to ‘travel the world’ for a couple of years. It was only when his father died that he returned to London, to take over the company. 

“You weren’t traveling,” Arthur says, after a minute.

“No,” Eames confirms. “But it was a convenient excuse.”

“Did you drop out of Oxford to work with Cobb and Mal? Is that how you—”

“I dropped out of Oxford because I couldn’t breathe anymore,” Eames says. He presses his forehead into the heel of his palm, like it gives him a headache to remember it. “My entire life had been a fucking farce. Nannies, polo parties, riding lessons—I was a prop to my parents. There was nothing like love between us.” Eames sighs, closing his eyes. “And Oxford turned out to be filled with exactly the same people—polite and perfectly vacant. I couldn’t bear it.”

“So you left?” Arthur asks, resisting the urge to do something stupid like pour himself into Eames’ lap and grip onto his lapels.

“Yes,” Eames says. “I didn’t take a thing with me—no money, nothing from my parents. I didn’t want to carry something that could be traced. I forged some shoddy paperwork that got me out of the country and then I went to Jakarta, then to Mumbai, then to Cairo. That’s where I met Cobb.”

“Why those places?” Arthur asks, because he knows all about running away—about hating a place so much you want to sprint until every trace of it rattles out of your bones. But Jakarta seems a little dramatic, even for him. 

“I don’t know, really,” Eames says, sinking deeper into his chair. “I wanted to throw myself into the heat and dirt of the world until I was someone else, I suppose.”

Arthur can see it—Eames, young and fierce, sloughing off his old life in the dense mobs of Cairo, picking every pocket along the way. Eames, beautiful and dangerous and lost.

Arthur runs his fingertips over the fine leather of his armchair, wondering how Eames could've ever ended up back here, sitting in this miserably elegant room.

“Your father,” Arthur says, not sure how to ask the next question. “Why would you take over his company if you hated all this? Why did you come back?”

Eames smiles, picking at a piece of lint on his knee.

“I suppose you could say,” Eames murmurs, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes, “that I rose to my father’s last taunt.” 

The sound of a sharp knock interrupts Arthur’s next question.

“Eames, I’ve been paging you—your 1 P.M. is here,” says a voice on the other side of the door. “Should I see them in?”

Eames holds Arthur’s eyes before answering. “Yes, please do.”

The door opens a minute later, and three men in suits even more expensive than Arthur’s walk into the room.

“Saito, good to see you,” Eames says, standing up and greeting one of the men with a warm handshake. Arthur marvels at how quickly the complicated traces of their conversation fall away from Eames’ face. “Take a seat—Arthur and I were just finishing up. He is the new consultant I was speaking with you about.”

“Arthur,” Saito acknowledges, extending his hand. It takes Arthur a beat to remember how to give a handshake.

Eames steps out of his office and gestures for Arthur to follow him. They walk until they reach a small, unoccupied conference room at the end of the hallway. Eames directs Arthur inside and, after checking that the area is empty, shuts the door behind them.

“Eames, I—”

The rest of Arthur’s sentence bleeds away when Eames presses him back against the door.

“I’ve never told a soul what I just told you,” Eames says. He leans forward, his breath heavy and warm on Arthur’s skin. “What are you doing to me?”

Arthur barely registers the question, can’t even begin to answer it. He’s not sure he’s supposed to.

“Eames,” he repeats, like it’s the only word he knows.

Eames smooths his palms across Arthur’s ribs, his fingers curling possessively around the delicate bend of bones. _This is terrible,_ Arthur thinks. _This is going to break my heart_.

“I have to go back,” Eames says, his voice thick with resigned displeasure. His hand is already moving to the doorknob behind Arthur. “But do something for me—go to the hotel and find the flashdrive taped under the bottom-right drawer of the dresser. There is something on there I think we can barter for a bit of favor with our friends in the legislature.”

“Cobb’s suggestion?” Arthur asks, his voice coming out shockingly broken after just a few seconds of contact with Eames.

“He does prove himself useful on occasion,” Eames muses, still pressed to Arthur.

Eames feels like a furnace. Arthur wants the layers of cloth between them to drop away like water, wants to taste the sweet salt of his skin. Arthur doesn’t want to be touched by anyone but Eames, not anymore.

Eames is the one to break them apart finally, stepping back from Arthur with a look of grim, tidy professionalism. He’s got important men waiting for him. This is his company, his life, and Arthur is just an interloper here, a passing complication. Arthur needs to let him go.

“This is my last meeting today,” Eames says, arranging himself neatly back together. Arthur is fascinated by how easy it is for Eames to do that, to become one thing and then another. “Why don’t I meet you at the hotel when I’m done—we can finish the rest of our work there before Mal comes by with the tuxes.”

“The tuxes?” Arthur asks, moving aside so Eames can open the door.

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Eames says, a soft curve to his lips. “We're going to a party tonight.”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur spends the entire drive back to the hotel considering what just happened.

He thinks he should be dwelling more on the part about Eames being some sort of international criminal, but that isn’t the thing he’s stuck on. That part, at least, he can understand—it’s Eames.

What Arthur finds more confusing is the way Eames pressed him against the door afterwards, breathing him in, saying _what have you done to me_. The startling intimacy of it has Arthur bewildered, tipped off his axis.

Arthur is still thinking about it, needling the whole thing over in his mind, when he drops his keycard into the lock and opens the door. That’s probably why it takes him a second to notice that there are two men standing in the middle of the suite, tearing through files and turning out drawers. 

“What the fuck?” one of them spits at the other, his voice sharp as acid. “You said there wasn’t going to be anyone here until—”

“There wasn’t supposed to be,” the other snaps back, and within the space of a breath, both of them have their guns trained on Arthur. 

Arthur lifts his hands in submission, feeling his heart drum in his chest. It’s not the rabbit-fast heartbeat of someone who is terrified. It’s a steady, intense rhythm. Arthur is calm. 

“Walk to the chair,” one of the men says, directing Arthur with a wave of his gun. It’s a Browning, Arthur identifies. Double-stack magazine. Light, single-action trigger. Makes a clean, crisp sound when it fires.

Arthur knows this because he’s fired that model before. It was at a shooting range, obviously, and the bullets were directed at a paper cutout—but he thinks he could handle one here, if he had to.

“What the hell is going on—”

A third man comes stalking out from the bedroom, and Arthur’s stomach drops—there is a thumbdrive in his hand, a loose mess of tape hanging from it. It must be the one Eames told Arthur to get. _Fuck_.

“This is the guy, I think,” one of men says, jerking a shoulder towards Arthur. “The one they—“

“Shut the fuck up,” the third man says, walking slowly out from the bedroom. He is tall, narrow, sharp-angled, and has a thick scar across his lip. He reminds Arthur of a snake coiling smoothly just before it strikes.

His eyes are on Arthur, two hard black flints, when he says, “Tie him up.”  

The two men walk over and shove Arthur roughly down into the chair. They holster their guns, one man yanking Arthur’s hands behind his back, the other drawing a zip tie out from his pocket.

That’s when Arthur thinks, very evenly— _this is exactly what you were never going to let happen._

It only takes a heartbeat for Arthur’s training to kick in, all muscle memory as he uses the grip of the two men against them. He focuses all the power in his strong, wiry body into throwing one of them over his shoulder, knocking the man’s stocky form into the other like a boulder. It puts both men flat on the floor, and the sudden chaos grips the attention of snake guy just long enough for Arthur to bolt sideways and pull a Browning out of one of the men’s holsters.

Arthur pivots, aiming the gun directly at Snake. He pops off the safety and cocks the gun with an audible _click_.

“Drop your gun and kick it to me,” Arthur instructs, his voice solid and clear. 

The man looks furious, but it only takes a few seconds of angry hesitation before he draws out his gun with two fingers and sits it slowly on the floor. He slides it to Arthur with the heel of a perfectly polished boot.

Arthur collects that gun, plus the Browning from the other holster, and tucks them both into the back of his pants. It’s going to limit his movement, he knows, but it’s better than having the guns sit out in such a vulnerably small space. 

“Sit down and don’t move,” Arthur tells him. Snake complies, a dark scowl on his face.

One of the men behind Arthur rouses, letting out a violent string of expletives as he comes back to consciousness. He is almost to his feet when Arthur steps back and lands a clean kick to the man’s knee, breaking it. There is a thick, ugly crack. The man shrieks.

Arthur moves quickly, securing both men on the floor with zip ties before turning his attention back to Snake.

“What are you?” he asks, his hands in the air, his body taut with fury. “Ex-military? Black ops? I guess this guy’s rich enough he could probably afford a fucking ninja.”

“I’m not a bodyguard,” Arthur says, before realizing that he shouldn’t be answering this guy’s questions. “And I’d ask why you’re here, but I have a pretty fucking good idea.”

Arthur is pulling out a zip tie to secure Snake when he hears, rather than sees, the swift movement in front of him, the sound of metal clicking over metal.

Arthur is already ducking and rolling, landing behind the thick oak desk just as the first bullet fires.

Snake must’ve had a second gun.

More bullets fire off, and Arthur counts them down. He knows that whatever weapon Snake has must be small, single-chambered, the kind that’s easy to conceal. It can’t have more than 10 rounds. He’ll have to reload soon. Arthur counts. _Seven, eight, nine_ —

Then it’s there, the empty click.

Arthur bolts up the second the hears it, landing a clean shot to Snake’s shoulder while the man fumbles to reload his clip. Snake cries out—one short, furious sound. Then he rushes Arthur.

They grapple in the center of the room. Arthur sifts through everything he knows—krav maga, mauy thai, judo—to pick out the right move, the right dodge. He slaps the empty gun out of Snake’s hand the second they come together, but it doesn’t matter—Snake is fast, clearly trained in hand-to-hand combat, with infinitely more experience than Arthur. His damaged shoulder isn’t even slowing him down. It’s a struggle to keep Snake away from his vulnerable points, from the guns tucked in the back of his pants, it’s almost too much, it’s—

 _Calm the fuck down_ , Arthur tells himself, forcing his mind to clear. _You know how to do this._

It happens quickly after that. Arthur feints left, moves right, crushes his heel into Snake’s instep, and then, with Snake momentarily doubled-over, lands both his elbows against the man’s kidneys.

Snake is on the floor, gasping, when Arthur moves in to zip tie his hands. He makes a strangled sound when Arthur wrenches his arm behind his back. The bullet must still be in his shoulder, Arthur assesses, with an odd level of detachment.

There is a sudden clatter of footsteps into the room, and then—

“HOTEL SECURITY, back up, back up!”

Three security guards rush to him, the same ones from the incident at the valet stand. Mr. Charl—Cobb is there too, his gun drawn, his jaw tightening as he takes in the scene.

Arthur feels like everything is melting into slow motion. He stands up, looking at the three men on the floor, at the room ripped apart around him. He is mesmerized by the blood splattered across the carpet. None of it is his.

“Arthur?” Cobb says, his voice thick with shock. “Arthur, what—”

“They were here when I came in,” Arthur explains, his voice steady. “They were tearing up the room, looking for something.”

“Are you hurt?” Cobb asks. “Do you need medical assistance? I’ll call for a—”

“No. I’m not, I’m—can I talk to you alone?” Arthur asks, feeling dread pool in the pit of his stomach.

Cobb can’t call the cops. Cops will ask questions. Cops will want to know who Arthur is, why he’s in this hotel. They’ll—

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Cobb says to him, his eyes narrowing in concern. He turns back to his team. “Secure the floor—and compress that bullet wound. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Arthur follows Cobb out of the room and into the elevator. The adrenaline crash hits him hard on the ride down. His limbs feel heavy, his skin cold.

“Don’t call the cops,” Arthur says, the second they get inside Cobb’s office. “Or if you do, you need to leave me out of it.”

“Arthur—“

“Eames told me about what you do, about—I mean, you can’t want cops crawling all over this place either, can you?”

“I’m not going to call the cops,” Cobb says, his half-smile belied by the intensity of his expression. He pulls out his cell phone and dials a number.

“It’s Cobb,” he says into the phone. “I need a cleanup.” Arthur hears indistinct chatter on the other end of the line. “Three of them… Chandiramani and two others… all secured, one bullet wound… didn’t look serious… 12th floor, the penthouse suite.”

Cobb hangs up the phone. He gestures for Arthur to sit down.

“So,” Cobb says, taking the seat next to Arthur instead of the one behind the desk. “Eames told you about me.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “About what you do. And that the two of you worked together.”

“Interesting,” Cobb says. “I didn’t think he was in the habit of getting that close to people.”

“We’re not close. We’re—” Arthur doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, so he lets it drain out into the air. “Who did you just call?” he asks instead.

“Contacts of mine,” Cobb answers. “A team that handles this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“The sort of thing that needs to go away quietly,” Cobb says. “Eames won’t want this on the evening news, trust me.”

“What happens to those assholes upstairs, then? They just walk away?”

“You want me to shoot them?” Cobb asks. “Because those are the only two options when you do things off the books.”

Arthur swallows thickly. “No. I don’t want anyone to—”

“Good, because that’s not what I do. I’m a thief, not some murdering lunatic,” Cobb says, sounding almost amused by Arthur’s inexperience. “And Chandiramani is just an asshole for hire. He’s got no stake in this. Whatever he was here to steal—it was just about a payout for him. He won’t be back.”

“You know him?”

“You get to know most of them, after a while,” Cobb says, his smile turning a little weary. “And Chandiramani is a nasty piece of work. How did you manage to get him on the floor?”

“I got the guns from the other two and then—”

“The guns?” Cobb asks. “You disarmed all three of them?”

“Yeah,” Arthur shifts forward and untucks the two Brownings from the back of his pants. He sits them on the desk with a heavy clink.

“Did you have a weapon with you?” Cobb asks, narrowing his eyes to a squint.

“No,” Arthur answers. “I mean, after I took their guns I did, but—”

“So you walked into a room,” Cobb says, “with no weapons and no warning you’d be ambushed, and managed to disarm three former IAF members with—what, the zip ties in your pocket?”

“The zip ties were theirs too, actually,” Arthur says. “I took those after the guns.”

Cobb looks at him for a long minute. 

“Eames mentioned you were working on research for him,” he says. “Is that true?”

“It’s—yeah,” Arthur answers, baffled by the sudden change in topic.

“Are you any good at it?”

Arthur bristles. “Yes, I’m good at it.”

“How good?”

“Good enough that Eames put me in charge of the Fischer-Morrow case after one day,” Arthur says, feeling oddly defensive.

Cobb leans back in his chair. He looks Arthur over, assessing and sharp.

Something about it reminds Arthur of Mal, of the way she looked at him when she was sizing him up for a suit.

“Arthur,” Cobb says, a smile almost touching his lips. “Any chance you’re in the market for a job?”

 

  

***

 

  

Arthur walks back into the wreck that is the penthouse suite and lets the door fall closed behind him.

The “cleanup” crew Cobb hired didn’t actually clean anything, obviously, which means there is splintered furniture and wrinkled paper all over the room, rust-colored stains marking where blood pooled lazily into the carpet.

Arthur spears two hands into his hair and lets his knees fall out from under him. He drops onto the mostly undamaged couch and thinks about the last sixty minutes of his life. He doesn’t know which part is the most surreal—what happened in this room, or the conversation afterwards.

The job is in Berlin. It starts in three weeks, after Cobb gathers the last of the intel he needs here. It’s a small team—just Cobb, Mal, and Alexi, someone they’ve worked with on and off since Eames dropped out of the game. But they need a fourth for this job. A point man, Cobb said.

Arthur would have to do research, run the job, carry a gun.

One month. Minimal complications. And the money is obscene.

Arthur sighs, the air feeling heavy and slow as it moves through his lungs. He flexes his fingers, cracks his neck, and tries to settle himself back into his bones. It almost works—until he hears the sound of someone scrabbling violently at the door.

Arthur is off the couch and on his feet in a matter of seconds. He gets low, crouching at the door’s edge just as it flies open. He is about to attack the person raging into the room, but then it’s—

It’s Eames. He’s moving through the destroyed suite, frantic, looking for something, looking for—

“Arthur!” Eames cries. He sounds like he’s been gargling broken glass.

“I’m here,” Arthur says, quiet, trying not to startle him. “Eames, I’m right here.”

Eames turns around, his expression shaking between fear and anger and relief.

“Christ, _Arthur_ —” Eames says, and in the space of a heartbeat, he’s there, right there, touching Arthur everywhere, like he’s afraid Arthur might vanish from under his hands. “Are you alright? Did they—”

“I’m fine,” Arthur says. “Everything’s fine. They didn’t get whatever they were here to take, so it’s—”

“Do you think I give a shit about that?” Eames says, his eyes raw with something Arthur doesn’t know how to name. “Do you think I give a shit about anything in this room but you?”

Arthur can’t help it, how hard he kisses Eames.

He grips his fingers into Eames’ hair, destroying the neatly gelled comb of it. Eames groans against Arthur’s mouth, licking over the ridges of his teeth. It’s not a kiss as much as a collision.

“What were you thinking?” Eames pants, between one heavy drag of his lips and another. “What were you thinking, fighting them? You could’ve gotten yourself killed, you—”

“I don’t know,” Arthur breathes, chasing Eames’ mouth, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know, I just knew I could do it.” 

“You are a bloody fucking lunatic, Arthur, you—”

“It’s okay, Eames, I’m fine, I’m here,” Arthur says, his litany getting lost in Eames’ mouth. “I’m right here.”

As if to make certain of it, Eames gathers Arthur up, gripping bruises into his hips as he lifts him off his feet. Arthur moans, hooking his legs behind the small of Eames’ back.

Eames is kissing him fiercely, carrying him through the wreckage of the room. Arthur is suddenly rock hard, desperate for friction, digging his heels into Eames for leverage. He’s barely managed to scrape their bodies together when Eames presses him down onto the bed.

“Fuck me,” Arthur says through clenched teeth. “Please, right now.” Eames groans, ripping apart the fine buttons of Arthur’s shirt. They scatter across the room, delicate notes of chaos among the wreckage.

They manage to shake off all of their clothes, and Arthur feels a spike of heat hit him when he sees the bruises on Eames’ shoulder—mottled imprints in the shape of his own fingertips. He remembers making them.

Arthur reaches out, squeezing the lurid blacks and blues. Eames hisses. Arthur smiles, dragging his lips over rough stubble.

“Did you like it?” Eames asks, hooking his forearm under Arthur’s knee and yanking, spreading Arthur wide open for him. “Marking me like that?”

“Yes,” Arthur pants. “Yeah.”

Eames sucks two of his own fingers to wet them, and then reaches down, pushing them into Arthur all the way to the knuckle. Arthur arches up, his body reacting to the harsh, welcome burn as Eames works into him almost dry.

“I like it too,” Eames says, and then bites hard at the fleshy curve of Arthur’s throat.

It’s probably the first time Arthur’s been grateful for all the clients who were too rough, too fast with him, because it means he knows how to take this. And from Eames, it doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like the rush before a fall, that tipping place between safe and broken.

“You’re so beautiful,” Eames says against Arthur’s mouth. “You are so beautiful like this.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. The feel of Eames on top of him, inside of him, the heat of him every place at once, is overwhelming.

“Please,” Arthur says again, his hand groping out blindly towards the side table where he knows the condoms and lube are. “Don’t tease me, just—”

“Does it feel like I’m teasing you?” Eames says, and twists his fingers hard in Arthur, dragging them against his prostate. Arthur groans, bending into the touch. Eames catches the sound with his mouth, swallows it whole. 

Then his fingers are gone, and Arthur’s leg is being hitched up higher, his knee bent over the crook of Eames’ elbow. He hears a foil packet being ripped with teeth, a plastic cap popping open, and Arthur thinks that such a mundane set of sounds should not be making him throb with want like this.

“Open your eyes,” Eames says, his voice shaking. “Arthur, open your—”

Arthur does, and Eames presses into him, agonizingly slow.

Arthur’s mouth falls open at the feel of it, at that heavy slide inside of him. Eames watches every flicker, every fragment of feeling that tumbles across his face. Sweat beads on Eames’ shaking arms when he bottoms out, buried in Arthur.

“Move,” Arthur demands, biting hard at his fat upper lip. Arthur is full of Eames, too full, can taste him on the back of his tongue. “Move, now, I can’t—”

Eames pulls back with a groan and thrusts roughly into him. He does it again, and again, and again, and again. It feels like it’s breaking Arthur open, like it’s turning him inside out and remaking him.

“Harder,” Arthur whines, drowning in sensation. He lets his head bob against the pillow, lets his body rattle with the force of it. “Don’t stop, don’t—”

“You’re impossible,” Eames says, and he slows, despite Arthur’s protests. He moves his hips in languid circles, making Arthur’s vision spark white.

 _“_ E-Eames _,”_ he says, his voice breaking across the single vowel.   

Eames shifts his weight so he can slide a hand in between them. He works Arthur’s cock with careful, even strokes. Arthur is dizzy, the pleasure crackling everywhere at once. It’s too much. Arthur is sure his skin isn’t strong enough to hold him together like this. 

“Eames, I’m going to—”

Arthur comes with a gasp, his nails digging into ink and skin. Everything is loud, too bright. Arthur feels himself shaking. 

That’s all it takes to make Eames fray apart. He starts thrusting hard into Arthur, harder than before, almost knocking him into the headboard. Arthur’s cock twitches valiantly. He can’t take his eyes off of Eames.

“Come for me,” Arthurs murmurs, dragging the words over his slack mouth. The entire room narrows only to this, to Eames. “Come for me, I want—”

Eames pulls in a rough lungful of air, their teeth knocking together. He comes with Arthur’s name on his lips.

 

 

***

  

 

They don’t move afterward, not for a long time. 

Arthur closes his eyes, sinking into the afterglow. He pushes everything out of his head except for the feel of Eames. 

Eames gets him on his feet eventually, coaxes him into the shower. He kisses Arthur softly under the warm spray, and Arthur lets him, trying to memorize the feel of his mouth, the way Eames tastes like summer. 

 _You are so fucking stupid,_ Arthur reminds himself. _Don’t pretend you don’t know how this ends._

“I am going to murder Cobb, by the way,” Eames says, rubbing Arthur’s hair dry with a towel when they step out of the shower.

“Any particular reason?” Arthur asks, taking the towel away from Eames so he can do it himself.

“Because if there was a real Head of Security at this hotel and not some bloody thief pretending to do the job,” Eames says, “you might not have had to fight off three—”

“Cobb came right away,” Arthur tells him, wrapping a towel around his waist. “He was here three, maybe four minutes after the fight started. There isn’t anything else he could’ve done.”

“He could’ve stopped those arseholes from getting in here in the first place.”

“Don’t you think you should be mad at Browning for that?” Arthur asks. “You know he was the one who hired those guys.”

“Of course he did,” Eames seethes, digging through the broken drawers to find a pair of pants. “Nash must’ve told them to come looking here for information on our grand bloody plan. Not that we have one, mind.” 

“Can't believe you used to work with that asshole,” Arthur says, grabbing the least wrinkled shirt from the floor and putting it on.

 He feels two hands slide around his waist, finishing the last buttons for him.

“If they had hurt you,” Eames says, his mouth on Arthur’s ear. “I would’ve—”

“They didn’t,” Arthur says, turning around. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“Did you really get the three of them on the floor?” Eames asks, his hands stroking down Arthur’s back. “That’s all the detail Cobb got out before I ran up here to find you.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, allowing himself a small flair of smugness. “I did.”

“And how in the hell did you manage that?”

Arthur shrugs. “I know a few things.”

“A few things?” Eames asks, his eyes glinting with humor and heat.

Arthur reaches over, picking up a letter opener from the table next to him. He judges the weight of it in his hand, making sure to account for the heavy marble handle, the sharpness of the blade. He grips it between his fingers, just so, and cocks his arm back. He throws it.

The blade sinks cleanly into the wall across the room. It spears the exact center of a rosebud in the wallpaper. 

Eames gapes at the display, open-mouthed.

“ _Arthur_ ,” he says, with absolute reverence. “You have been holding out on me.”

Eames moves in to kiss him, but Arthur stops him, his fingers falling gently over Eames’ lips.

“Wait,” Arthur says. “Eames.”

Arthur drops his hand against Eames’ sternum, holding him at a distance.

“I shouldn’t have let this—” Arthur pauses, trying to keep his voice even. “Neither of us needs to get confused about what this is.”

“About what this is,” Eames repeats, in a flat voice.

“Yes, I’m your—whatever, your employee.” Arthur can’t look at Eames. “You’re paying me to—”

“I understand,” Eames says, his voice taut and cold. Arthur’s heart clenches under his ribs. “Your rules were very clear. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, Eames, stop. I’m the one who—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Eames says. He steps away, putting on the rest of his clothes. “Believe me, Arthur, I understand perfectly.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say. He thought he was fixing this, but everything feels wrong, it feels—

There is a knock on the door.

“That’ll be Mal,” Eames says, walking away to answer it.

He opens the door, exchanging a quick kiss on the cheek with her. She drapes the garment bag in her arms over the back of the couch, totally unfazed by the destroyed room. She walks immediately to Arthur, gripping him in a hug.

“You look beautiful, mon chou,” she says, smiling against his check. “Not even a bruise.”

Arthur thinks, no matter how long as he lives, he’ll never meet another person like Mal.

“Where are you going?” Mal asks, when Eames opens the door and starts to walk out.

“I’ve got to go yell at your husband for a tick,” Eames says, smiling at her. It doesn’t touch his eyes. “You can start with Arthur—he’ll be far more fun to dress, I’m sure.” 

Eames leaves without saying a word to Arthur. He doesn’t even look at him.

 _“Fuck,”_ Arthur breathes into Mal’s dark curls.

Mal pulls back, cupping his face in both of her hands. Her eyes are searching and soft when they touch his. 

She sighs. “Tell me all of it.” 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur tells Mal all of it.

He tells her about what he does for a living, about how he met Eames, about how things started out complicated and only became more so. He tells her about driving down Mulholland, about eating cheeseburgers in bed, about the video. He tells her that Eames is the only one he’s ever broken the rules for—that Eames is the only one who made him want to.

“Are you in love with him?” she asks, her brown eyes coaxing and serious.

“ _Jesus_ , Mal, of course not,” Arthur says, frowning. “It’s just a crush. I can handle it.”

“How, exactly, do you plan to handle it?”

“By keeping my shit together for the next two days,” Arthur says, lacing up a glossy black shoe. “And then—I don’t know, I’ll fuck someone with a British accent and get over it. That’s what people do.”

“This is your plan?” she says, her accent flattening. 

“What the hell else can I do?” he asks, exhausted to the bone. “Say, ‘Oh hey Eames, I’m a low-to-mid-tier hooker you picked up on the internet and you’re a billionaire who owns three boats and maybe the Maldives. Run away with me?’”

“Why not?” she answers, entirely serious. “He could say yes.”

Arthur glowers at her.

“No offense, Mal,” he says, letting her pluck at his bowtie until it’s perfect, “but you give shitty advice.”

She clucks her tongue at him. 

“Arthur, you are too young to be so intent against your own happiness. Leave that to old, bitter men. They don’t look half as beautiful in a tuxedo as you do.”

She gestures for him to step back and look at himself in the mirror.

“That’s—huh,” he says, admiring the impeccable lines of soft black. He looks good.

“You see?” She tilts her head, smiling coquettishly at his reflection. “He would tear down mountains for you, dressed like that.”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, ignoring the blush at tips of his ears. “At some point he’d remember I’m playing dress up, and that’d be that.”

“This is what you’re afraid of?” she asks, leveling her hands at his shoulders. “That he would leave you?”

“Christ, Mal, don’t make me sound like some character in a fucking telenovela—”

“You don’t want to try because you believe it would end,” she says, in that way that’s not a question.

“Of course it would end. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Why do you—”

“I’ve seen how he is. Something fascinates him intensely for two minutes and then that’s it, he moves on.”

“You think that’s what you are?” 

“I know that’s what I am.”

“You cannot believe—”

“This isn’t some love affair, Mal.” Arthur sighs, letting the air rattle out of his lungs. “Everything that happened, all of it, he’s paying me for it. It’s not real.”

Mal looks at him. “For you, it is.”

Arthur stares down at his cufflinks. He twists one of them between his fingers, clasping and unclasping the fine metal latch.

“It doesn’t matter what stupid delusions I fed myself,” Arthur says. “Eames is leaving on Friday. That’s it.”

“Arthur—”

“Shit like this doesn’t happen for people like me, okay, so let’s drop it.”

“Of course it—”

“Who, Mal?” Arthur demands, pissed off by her ridiculous romanticism. “Name one person like me this shit ever worked out for with someone like him.”

Mal’s dark eyes are as stubborn as his. 

With ringing conviction, she says, “Cinderella.”

The tension between them snaps like a rubber band. They laugh themselves to the floor.

 

 

***

 

 

Eames sends Arthur three text messages.

The first one says that he’s been dragged away to a last-minute meeting and Mal should have the hotel courier his tuxedo to the office. The second says that he’ll meet Arthur at the party. The third is an address, and nothing else.

Arthur stares at the messages. He wonders if there really was a meeting. He wonders if it was just an excuse so Eames didn’t have to spend more time with him than absolutely necessary. He wonders what he did to deserve three texts from Eames with absolutely no misspellings or sexual innuendo.

Arthur touches his fingertips to the screen, feeling like an asshole for letting proper capitalization break his heart just a little.  

He drives to the address Eames gave him, trying to shove all of the day’s events down into something compact and manageable, something he can put away and deal with later.

It works, mostly.

Saito’s estate is massive, stretching across a beautiful acre of land outside the city. The entire place is lit up, a thousand lanterns breathing soft yellow. It reminds Arthur of the stories his mother told him, about kingdoms and castles and things that felt very far away.

He spots Eames as he drives up the curved lane to the entrance. He is leaning against a tree, smoking. He is hidden from the crowd by a brush of bright poppies, just west of the main doors. His cigarette is venting lazily into the air, playing with the pools of light.

Arthur doesn’t consider himself a particularly sentimental person. He doesn’t have a teddy bear from his childhood stowed away in a closet or anything like that. He has a couple photographs in a drawer somewhere, that’s it.

But Arthur thinks, if he could keep one thing, it would be this—a still frame of Eames, exhaling into the soft, dark air, the light warm where it touches him.

He drops the car off at the valet stand and walks over, feeling like an intruder as he steps past the row of poppies and into the spill of light.

“Hey,” Arthur says, instead of any of this. 

Eames looks up. Something complicated passes over his features, but it dissolves away as quickly as it came. A cheerful smile replaces it.

“You’re stunning, darling,” Eames says, and stubs out his cigarette.

Arthur is relieved that Eames doesn’t seem to be mad at him, but the relief is tinged with an unease he can’t shake. Eames’ smile is too bright, too big—Arthur can see it straining at the edges. His hand is polite at the small of Arthur’s back, not lingering or flirtatious. He doesn’t lean into Arthur, doesn’t whisper anything scandalous or conspiratorial as they press through the crowd toward the bar. 

For the first time since he’s been with Eames, Arthur feels like an escort out with a client.

“So,” Arthur says, desperate to break apart the silence. “What’s with this? Saito threw a party to celebrate a deal that hasn’t closed yet?”

“The party is for his birthday,” Eames explains, ordering a Grey Goose on the rocks for both of them. “The deal being nearly done is icing on the cake, I suppose.”

“But what if doesn’t happen?”

“Arthur,” Eames scolds, smirking at him. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bit of optimism, yeah?”

Arthur throws his drink back in one swallow. The burn is smooth. He asks for another.

“Yusuf!” Eames exclaims, pulling a man with bushy brown hair into a hug. “How in the hell are you?”

“Better before you got here,” Yusuf grumbles, but he’s smiling. “Whenever I see you, you ask me to do something.”

“Oh sod off,” Eames says affectionately. “Yusuf, this is Arthur—Arthur, Yusuf.”

“Good to meet you, Arthur,” Yusuf says, extending a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Well, a little about you. Well, I’ve heard—of you.”

“Don’t strain yourself trying to be sociable, Yusuf. I know you’re only here for the free champagne.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“Yusuf is my secretary,” Eames says to Arthur. Arthur chokes on his drink.

“That is not precisely true,” Yusuf says, his tone long-suffering. “I do manage his calendar a little—mostly I tell people he’s booked solid until 2017 so he never has any appointments.”

“Yusuf is the best secretary I ever had.”

“Yes, well—worth it for the free champagne, as you said.” Yusuf lifts his softly bubbling glass at them and nods.  

“Your secretary?” Arthur asks, as Yusuf walks away.

“Terribly long story,” Eames says, and smiles at Arthur in a way that finally feels genuine. Arthur drinks in the sight, eager to keep hold of it, but then—

“Who is this wicked little thing?” a man says, sliding up next to them. He is blonde and lithe and looks like a model. His smile reminds Arthur of a well-sharpened knife. “You do always have good taste, Eames,” the man purrs, looking Arthur up and down.

“You are the wickedest thing in this room, Claude, and don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

“Well, as long as you still think so,” Claude says, winking at Eames with a heavy purse of his lips. 

“About time you left the office,” another man says, walking over to join them. He is a bit taller, a bit older, with dark stubble and shattering blue eyes. “We haven’t seen you out in—Jesus, Eames, who’s the jailbait?”

“Claude, David—this is Arthur,” Eames says. “And I assure you, he is of proper age.”

Arthur feels dumbfounded by the conversation happening around him.

“Yeah, whatever you say, Eames,” Claude sighs, exchanging a look with David. “So tell us, Proper Age Arthur—what do you do?”

Arthur stumbles, taken aback by being addressed so directly after being talked about like he wasn’t even there.

“Arthur is a consultant,” Eames answers for him, taking a sip from the heavy rim of his glass. “He is working with me on the Fischer-Morrow case.”

“God, I would fuck Robert Fischer into next Tuesday,” Claude says, and David rolls his eyes. “No offense, Eames. I know you’re like, mortal business enemies with him right now.”

“None taken. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t wait until next Tuesday, darling—would be a great help to have him distracted now.”

They laugh hugely at the joke, like Eames is the funniest person to ever breathe air. Arthur notices that it’s not just Claude and David now, but a crowd of a dozen gorgeous men, all of them fawning over Eames and staring daggers at Arthur. They’re like a sycophantic fan club, practically foaming at the mouth when Eames as much as looks their way. It makes Arthur nauseous, to think how he’s basically become one of them, falling for Eames in just a handful of days.

Except he’s not like them—would never be like them, their affection plastic and cloying. He can practically see the dollar signs in their eyes—can see how they want to own Eames or be owned by Eames. But none of them actually want _him._ Not the way Arthur does, not even close. 

But maybe Arthur’s being delusional, to believe he’s set apart from this crowd. All of these men probably think they’re the only ones who genuinely want or deserve Eames.

Eames calls every one of them darling.

Arthur feels sick.

“Eames, a minute?” two men call from across the foyer, gesturing for Eames to join them. Arthur recognizes them as the same ones from the office earlier today.

Eames excuses himself from the mob of admirers, saying he’s terribly sorry but has to step away for a few minutes. He leans into Arthur’s ear just before he goes, and whispers,

“Quick chat with Saito and the VPs. Be back in a tick.”

Eames kisses Arthur on the cheek before he goes. It’s a casual scrape of lips, nothing like the way Eames’ mouth was on him a few hours ago. But as Eames walks away, Arthur can see the effect the softly intimately gesture has on the crowd in front of him. They look like a school of sharks smelling blood in the water.

“So, Arthur,” Claude says, eager and friendly in a way Arthur immediately recognizes as dangerous. “How long have you known Eames?”

“Um—not that long,” Arthur says.

“Well,” Claude continues, like he and Arthur are new best friends. “Eames seems to _really_ like you. How did you manage it?”

“Manage what?”

“To get him to bring you here!” Claude says. “Eames hasn’t brought a date to one of these parties in—god, I don’t even know how long.”

“He usually prefers to do his shopping here,” says a man with chestnut brown ringlets, “if you know what I mean.” He gives Arthur a heavy wink. They all laugh.

“Come on, Arthur!” Claude insists. “Don’t keep the dirty secret to yourself.”

“I’m sorry about them,” David says, restraining Claude fractionally. “Eames is sort of our most eligible bachelor. We’ve all tried to bag him.” Several of them nod and sigh in agreement.

Arthur looks at them, at their eager, pining faces. They remind Arthur of carnival mirrors, a set of distorted reflections showing Arthur exactly what he’s become—fixated on something he can’t have. 

“Well, don’t worry,” Arthur says, taking Claude’s drink from his hand and flicking the stupid mini-umbrella out of the glass. “I’m not trying to bag Eames. I’m just using him for sex.”

Arthur gulps down the hideous pink cocktail in one swallow. He hands Claude back the empty glass and walks away.

He considers running out of there—just getting in the car and driving off—but he refuses to let a bunch of bleached-asshole harpies bully him into leaving a party, like some really fucked up version of middle school.

He wanders around the mansion instead, accepting glass after glass of champagne from the ubiquitous wait staff, getting progressively drunker.

He looks for Eames, but can’t find him anywhere. Then he looks for Yusuf, because Yusuf is the only decent person Arthur met tonight, and Arthur thinks it might be fun to try and get him to tell the story of how he became Eames’ kind-of secretary. But he doesn’t find Yusuf, and he doesn’t find Eames.

He considers texting Ariadne and inviting her to this ridiculous mansion party, but she doesn’t have a car and he’s pretty sure there is no city bus that would come here. He considers texting Mal, but she’s already made her position very clear on the whole him and Eames thing, and Arthur’s really not in the mood for another lecture which ends in him getting compared to a Disney princess.

So, Arthur drinks, and drinks some more.

He passes by a row of photo booths—the kind of kitschy artifacts he imagines all superrich people must demand to have at their birthday parties. Arthur watches dozens of couples file in and out of the booths, most of them not even bothering to drag the velvet curtain closed. He watches them kiss and smile and make stupid faces. He watches one couple get so carried away that they don’t even notice the neat strip of photos that peel out at the end.

 _I have to get out of here_ , Arthur thinks.

He pushes through the crowd, snatching a pack of cigarettes from someone’s pocket and lighting one up right there, right in the middle of the party. He doesn’t give a shit that he shouldn’t smoke inside, gives even less of a shit that he gave up smoking three years ago, and keeps on, down the stairs, out the door, taking hard drags that pull ash straight to the filter.

He takes a shortcut across the garden, heading toward the cabstand at the end of the long drive.

“Arthur!” he hears distantly, but doesn’t stop.

“Arthur!” Eames repeats, running to catch up with him. “Arthur, where in the hell are you going?”

“Away. I don’t know. Somewhere else.”

“Why are you—”

“Are those people your friends?” Arthur asks, rounding on Eames.

“I don’t—”

“Because I get it now.”

“What do you get?” 

“Why you’d rather spend a week with some cheap fuck you met on the internet than with them. Trust me, I fucking get it.” Arthur pulls another cigarette out from the pack and keeps walking.

“Arthur, stop!"

“Why did you even bring me here?” Arthur asks, turning around and shoving into Eames’ space. “If I’d known all you were going to do was parade me around for ten minutes and then throw me to the wolves, I would’ve—”

“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Eames says, putting two hands on Arthur’s shoulders to keep him from running. “There was nothing I could do. Saito and the Proclus Global people were hammering me all night. It’s the man’s bloody birthday and he wouldn’t let up. They know the AustraCorps deal is going to close tomorrow, and if we don’t—”

“That’s funny, because I thought I was working this case _with_ you,” Arthur shouts. “Why didn’t you bring me to that meeting?”

“Christ, Arthur, it was a _finance_ meeting. And it wasn’t a meeting at all really, just a deeply unpleasant conversation I couldn’t get away from. There was no reason for you to—”

“Don’t worry, I get it, Bring Your Hooker To Work Day is over. I’ll rearrange my fucking calendar accordingly.”

Arthur shoves past Eames, trampling over a spread of violets.

 _“Arthur_ ,” Eames says, his voice sharp as glass. He moves in front of him, pressing two hands firmly to Arthur’s chest to halt him. “Arthur.”

Eames holds him there, just holds him, his grey eyes churning and heavy like the air before a storm. His hands spread over the fine poplin of Arthur’s shirt, the dark silk of his jacket.

“Arthur,” Eames repeats, soft and coaxing.

“Don’t,” Arthur says. His anger collapses, giving way to the hollow, barbed ache he was trying to run from. “Eames, just don’t.”

“What is it?” Eames asks, heartbreakingly earnest. He lets his hands drop to his sides. “Tell me, please, I’m not—”

“I can’t do this.” Arthur looks at the torn flowers under his feet. “I can’t.”

“Arthur—”

“Don’t pay me,” Arthur says, the words spilling out. “I mean, you can pay me for the research, but not for the rest of it. I don’t want your money.”

“What are you saying?”

“You weren’t a job, okay. Not to me.”

Eames goes still. Arthur closes his eyes. He can’t look at him.   

“I know this is exactly what you didn’t want out of this, and I’m sorry. I’m not—going to go lovesick psycho on you or anything. I’ll get my stuff from the suite and leave.”

Eames is silent. Terribly, entirely silent. Arthur only knows he’s there from the soft drag of his breath.  

“Say something.”

Eames doesn’t, but Arthur feels two strong hands slide across his jaw. He opens his eyes.

“You are such a bloody idiot,” Eames says, and he’s laughing, soft and bright. “You are so stupid, Arthur. I’m arse over kettle for you.”

“What does that even mean? You are so British, I don’t—”

Eames kisses him, and Arthur doesn’t even think about resisting. He gives into it, gives everything to it, kisses back hard and graceless and fierce.

“Did you think for one bloody second I didn’t want you like this?” Eames says, panting against his skin. “That it wasn’t killing me to be your _client_ and not your—”

“Why?” Arthur asks. It’s the only question that makes sense to him.

“Because you’re brilliant and gorgeous and rude and I’m sure we’ll make an absolute mess of it, but I want you, Arthur. I can’t think of anything but wanting you.”  

Arthur keens against Eames’ mouth, feeling like his skin is about to break apart.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Arthur says, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t have any idea what comes next. “I’ve never—I don’t know how to do this.” 

“Come with me,” Eames breathes. “Come to London.”

“Eames—”

“I don’t know how to do this either, Arthur. We’ll fake it.” Eames smiles, wide and warm against his mouth. “Say you'll come.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, and he’s laughing now. He’s frightened and young and the ground feels ready to shatter under his feet but he’s laughing, and that’s enough.

“How terrible of a cliché would we be if we made love under the moonlight,” Eames asks, “right here on the trampled violets?”

“I’m not even going to answer that,” Arthur says. His smile catches on Eames’ beautifully crooked teeth. 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

They don’t fuck in the garden, but they don’t go back to the party either. 

“I want to take you somewhere,” Arthur tells him, on impulse, adrenaline and alcohol sloshing in his veins.

“Anything you want,” Eames says. The words are a soft blur on Arthur’s skin.  

They can’t seem to pull apart, not even as they make their way towards the valet stand. Eames keeps both hands on Arthur, one tucked against the small of his back, the other curling into his pocket. Arthur lets it happen, lets them be sloppy with each other. His dimples feel like permanent fixtures, two unrelenting divots that crease harder when Eames presses his lips to his ear, tells him he’s beautiful, that he’s the most beautiful thing.

They must look obscene, the two of them. Arthur can’t believe how little he cares.

“You are too drunk to drive,” Eames whispers, as the valet pulls the car around.

Arthur says he knows that, and that Eames is going to drive.

Eames gives him a look.

“I’m too drunk to drive,” Arthur clarifies, “not too drunk to teach you how. Come on.”

Eames is plainly suspicious, but he doesn’t argue, sliding into the drivers seat while Arthur goes around to the passenger side. Arthur doesn’t like the feeling of riding sidecar, not really, but it’s going to be worth it to watch Eames burn the pavement in a few minutes.

“Hold this, don’t take your hand off of it,” Arthur tells him, getting Eames’ grip aligned correctly on the stickshift. “Feel the hitch and give—yeah, like that.” Eames follows the instructions, but gives Arthur a sidelong glance.

“You are going to give me the vapors, talking like that." 

“You are not a regency heroine,” Arthur tells him. 

“Might be.”

Arthur is about to tell Eames to shut up, but he remembers he has a better method for doing that now, and kisses him. Eames’ hand slides off the stickshift and onto Arthur’s thigh. His fingers spread, stretching the fabric, and Arthur sighs into his mouth. Eames thumbs at the taut little puckers that curl up along the inseam.

“Stop being difficult,” Arthur murmurs, when he finally manages to break away. He repositions Eames’ hand on the stickshift. “And do what I tell you.”

“Yes, Mr. West.”

His tone is low and drenched with sex. Arthur has to swallow before he can speak again.

“Don’t start with that last name shit. I’ll call you Edward.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Edward,” Arthur says. “Ed. Eddie.”

Eames growls, forgetting the stickshift again to grip at Arthur’s hips. Arthur smiles, and Eames bites his way into the kiss. 

There is a soft rap on the window, some time later. 

“Sir—sirs.” The valet is peering in with a pained look on his face. “I’m sorry, you—you’re blocking the lane.”

Arthur watches the poor kid turn twelve shades of red, glancing back at the row of cars waiting to pull in.

Eames looks at Arthur. They burst into bright, heaving laughter.

“Sorry about that,” Eames says, rolling down the window and pressing an extravagant tip in the valet’s hand. The kid gives him an awkward half-nod, half-salute in response, and they drive off, laughing until their throats feel rusty.

Eames is able to handle the car easily enough at first, but as soon as they gain speed, the transmission whines and Eames fumbles. Arthur feels too much pity for the beautiful car to let her wheeze and sputter like that, so he just yells at Eames about the pedals and starts to work the stickshift himself.

“That’s cheating, love.”

“Not my fault you’re a slow learner,” Arthur says. “Pay attention.”

Arthur positions Eames’ hand again and tells him what to do—how to feel the catch of the gears, how to time the pedals, how to ride the drift of acceleration downhill and then back up.

It turns out Eames is, in fact, a very fast learner. Arthur shows him everything just once, and then he has it.

“Mulholland?” Eames asks, already breathless.

“Fuck yes,” Arthur answers, the sharp bite of acceleration pressing him back into the seat.

 

 

***

  

 

They almost get arrested. They also almost sideswipe a tree, which would’ve been far worse, in Arthur’s opinion.

“If you scratch my car,” Arthur says, the threat belied by the soft way he plays with the cuff of Eames’ sleeve. “I’ll have to kill you. I hope you know that.”

“Your car already, hmm?” Eames says, leaning in to bite at Arthur’s lips as they settle at a red light. “I wasn’t aware you’d closed my deal. Cheers to me then.”

“I haven’t,” Arthur says, the words sliding over Eames’ mouth. “But I will. Tomorrow." 

“Tomorrow,” Eames agrees, like the distinction is something important. Tonight is for them and nothing else.

“Take a left up here,” Arthur directs, pulling apart from Eames when the light turns green.

“Where are you taking me, then?”

“To a real party,” Arthur answers, intentionally vague. “But we’ll have to dress you first. This is all wrong.” Arthur thumbs at Eames’ bowtie.

“Arthur,” Eames scoffs. “Dior is never wrong. What would Mal say?”

“Oh, Mal definitely can’t know about this,” Arthur says, his smile dripping with mischief.

“And how do you propose we handle the attire situation?”

“Don’t worry,” Arthur tells him. “I got it covered.”

 

 

***

  

 

“You cannot be serious,” Eames says with delight, digging through Arthur’s closet. “Not a scrap of this will fit me, you know that?” 

“Something will,” Arthur answers, lounging back on his creaky bed, watching Eames. “It’ll just be really tight.”

“You cannot be serious,” Eames says again, but he’s already shucking off his tux and pulling out things to try on.

“I didn’t complain when you dressed me in all those ridiculous rich people clothes,” Arthur says. He ungenerously fails to mention that he adores the suits and plans to keep every one of them.

“Arthur, don’t let this criticism shatter you, but you complain about everything.”

“I thought you liked that,” Arthur challenges, taking a messy swig from the wine bottle they opened as soon as they walked in the door. “Me and my rudeness.”

Eames turns, setting aside the metallic blue shirt in his hands to look at him.

Arthur can only imagine the picture he paints. He’s lounging back on the narrow bed, his bowtie abandoned, his dress shirt parted past the collar. His mouth is red and wet from the wine. His hair is a mess, thrown a hundred directions from driving with all the windows down. He tried to comb it back into place with his fingers, but that only tamed it fractionally. He can feel it against his face now, curling at the tips from the heat. There is no air conditioning in Arthur’s apartment.

Eames looks his fill.

“Come here,” Arthur says, his voice gone rough.

Eames reminds him of a panther, of some great big cat, as he stalks forward, licking his lips, his eyes intent on Arthur.

He knees his way onto the mattress, touching Arthur’s bent legs and easing them apart. He sinks his weight on top of him. He is heavy. Arthur loves the feel of him.

“You’re still dressed,” Eames says, his breath hot. “That just won’t do.”

Eames peels the jacket from Arthur’s shoulders, then parts the buttons on his shirt, his fingers working slowly down the placket. He reaches for Arthur’s belt, taking his time with it, unfastening the metal clasp and sliding it from his hips. 

“Put your hands on me,” Arthur says, because Eames is touching his shirt, his shoes, his cufflinks, everything but his skin.   

Eames ignores him, continuing his work. He pulls Arthur’s undershirt over his head, tugs at his socks, skims the underwear from his hips, dismantling him.

“Eames,” he pants. “Come on.”

Arthur is naked now, nothing but long lines of skin under Eames. He’s shaking with the need to be gripped, kissed, torn up, _something_. 

“No,” Eames says. “No, I want to look at you first.”

Eames does, leaning back on his haunches to get a better view of Arthur spread out on the bed. Arthur palms himself, impatient. A whine builds at the back of his throat. 

“Say it again,” Eames asks him. “I want to hear it.”

“What?” 

“What you said in the garden.” 

“What do you—”

“Please,” Eames’ hands open and close mutely at his sides, like he is aching to touch Arthur as much as Arthur is aching to be touched. “Please, say it again.”

“You aren’t a job to me,” Arthur blurts, understanding what Eames is asking for. “I want you, I want—”

“What do you want?” Eames asks, and then finally, _finally,_ he swipes his knuckles over Arthur’s hipbone. Arthur jolts under the touch like he’s been shot. 

“This,” Arthur gasps. His cock throbs. “You. Your hands.”

“What else?” Eames murmurs, still only touching Arthur with the ridge of his knuckles.

Arthur whines through locked teeth. He thrusts up, his cock scraping against the coarse hair on Eames’ belly. Arthur groans at the messy, unsatisfying friction. 

“Eager,” Eames hums, his tongue flicking at the edge of Arthur’s ear. “I think I know just what to do with you.” 

Eames flips him over in one quick movement, pressing Arthur face down on the creaky mattress.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur spits. He takes in loud, hungry gulps of air.

Eames drags the flat of his tongue down the rivets of Arthur’s spine. Arthur ruts shamelessly against the stiff fabric of his sheets, moaning at the feel.

“You are so beautiful like this,” Eames says, his mouth on small of Arthur’s back. Arthur muffles a shout when Eames’ teeth graze over his ass. Eames moves lower, his hands kneading him roughly apart. Arthur lets out a high, shattered cry when Eames’ tongue sinks into him.

Arthur can’t believe it, he _can’t_ , but a minute later, he’s coming, just from the friction of the sheets and the shock of Eames’ tongue on him. He feels like an idiot—like he’s fifteen again and needs to be taught how to hold himself together. But the embarrassment washes away in the afterglow, the last traces of orgasm coiling warm through his toes.

Eames laughs, wriggling down next to him in the tiny bed. 

“Really?” he says.  

“That’s what you get for dragging this shit out,” Arthur mumbles into the pillow.

Eames laughs, skimming his hand down Arthur’s back. 

“I like taking my time with you,” he says. Something about it makes Arthur lean up on his elbows to look at him.

“I’m not particularly good at this,” Eames says, soft, like a confession. “I haven’t been with just one person in a very long time, and even when I was, it was for convenience more than anything. With you, it’s—I’m not playing at this. You’re not a lark to me.”

“I’m not playing either,” Arthur says.

After a flicker of hesitation, he reaches up, smoothing his fingers through Eames’ short hair. 

Arthur wants to say more—to tell Eames that he’s never brought a man to his apartment before, that he’s never touched someone like this. That Eames is the only person who has kissed Arthur in this bed. He wants to tell Eames that he’s going to be shitty at this whole thing, way shittier than Eames. That Arthur knows how to run, that he’s good at running, but he’s going to try and learn how to stay.

Arthur says none of this, but he puts his mouth to Eames, hoping a kiss can convey some measure of it.   

  

 

***

 

 

They finish going through Arthur’s clothes, pulling out the most ridiculous pieces of his work attire and squeezing Eames into them. They laugh like kids, taking messy swigs from the bottle and spilling red wine everywhere.

“These are meant to be worn on the legs? ” Eames asks, stretching a pair of white skinny jeans over his calves with violent effort. “I think they would be better suited as a handkerchief.” 

Arthur laughs, watching Eames struggle. “Give it up, those ones will never work.”

“Don’t tell a man what he can and cannot do, Arthur.” Eames’ face is red with effort as he struggles to inch them over his knees.

“Eames, you’re never going to—”

A long, loud rip sounds through the apartment. Eames’ pants fall away like a limp banana peel, and Arthur cackles so hard he nearly tips off the bed.

“You are such a shit,” Eames says, but he’s laughing too, scooping Arthur up and kissing him. 

In the end, Eames squeezes himself into some artfully torn jeans and a bright pink tank top that exposes every tattoo along the swell of his arms.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, his mouth gone dry. “Yeah, you’re wearing that.”

Eames smiles at him, filthy and proud.

Arthur is shimmying into a ridiculous pair of neon hot pants that Eames picked out for him when he hears the door fly open.

“Hey asshole, why didn’t you tell me you were gonna come by the apartment toni—”

Ariadne stops short, her mouth falling open.

“Shit,” Arthur says. In the same second, Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist from behind and says, “Hello!”

“Arthur, who the hell—is that _him_?” Ari points at Eames. 

“What?” Eames says.

“Fuck,” Arthur says.

“Eames?” Ari asks.

“That’s me,” Eames says, and Arthur groans out loud, because if there were two people he really never needed to meet, it was Eames and Ariadne.   

“But what is—Arthur, you never bring your, um—work people—here,” Ari says, suddenly tense, like maybe Arthur is in some kind of trouble but she can’t quite figure out what. “Are you—” 

“This isn’t work, Ari. I asked Eames to come here.”

“Oh,” Ari says. She is looking them over, taking in the sight of Eames holding Arthur at the waist. “So, you—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Arthur says.

“Wait,” Ari says, her smile getting too big too fast. “Are you—”

“Here we go,” Arthur sighs, leaning his weight back against Eames because, fuck it, they’re caught anyway. 

“Oh my god,” Ari starts, her face lighting up like an arcade. “Is he your boyfriend now or something?”

“Ari, _shut up_ ,” Arthur seethes, turning beet red and remembering why he never wanted to have friends or lovers or any of it.

Eames throws his head back, laughing like a loon. 

“Arthur, he is so hot!”

“Ari, I’m gonna kill you.”

“I like her,” Eames says.

“When were you going to tell me—”

“Sorry Ari, gotta go,” Arthur says, pushing Eames out the door before she can figure out a creative way to further embarrass him. He doesn’t even care that he’s still wearing the yellow hot pants, that’s just what’s happening now. 

“Have fun!” she shouts, beaming at them like they’re two kids off to prom.

“Wonderful to meet you, darling!” Eames shouts back at her, waving goodbye as Arthur shoves him down the hallway. 

 

 

***

 

 

Something absolutely no one knows about Arthur is that he loves clubs.

He _loves_ them.

It started when he was fifteen, when he would sneak out of whatever shitty foster situation he was in to go to the warehouse raves in Baltimore. He craved the chaos of them, the way he could let everything go, could be in his body instead of his head for a few hours. There is something about the music in those places, how the bass will tear you open until you can’t think, the way the sound fills your skull, takes up all the space under your skin. When Arthur is at a club, he forgets about everything but the bodies next to him, aware of nothing but how they move and how he moves with them. It’s a beguiling sort of freedom. 

He leads Eames through the unmarked entrance of WINKS, pulling him past the row of beaded curtains and out onto the main floor, the music so loud Arthur can feel it invade his ribcage. The lights are spinning, coating the bodies on the dance floor like pieces of candy. 

Eames smiles at him, his teeth bright white from the blacklights. He doesn’t ask why they’re there, doesn’t hesitate for an instant when Arthur pulls him close and grinds slow against the beat. 

Eames doesn’t ask, but there is a reason Arthur wanted to bring him here, why it was the first thought he had as they were leaving Saito’s garden.

Arthur doesn’t want to be inside his head tonight. 

He doesn’t want to have to stop and consider what they’re doing with each other, not yet. He doesn’t want to think about what it would mean to leave for London with Eames, what he’d do when he got there, where he’d live, how he’d pay for any of it without blindly accepting Eames’ charity, which he absolutely will not do. Arthur doesn’t believe in fairy tales and he sure as hell doesn’t believe that things this complicated can come together so simply. He has no idea how they’ll do this thing, and he doesn’t want to think about it, not yet.

Arthur is drinking in Eames’ skin, sliding two hands over his tattoos, his muscles, the coarse hair on his forearms. There is nothing in Arthur’s head but the hard, steady beat of the 808s and the feel of Eames under his hands. 

They dance until they’re soaked through with sweat, until Arthur is so turned on he’s dizzy with it. Eames cups Arthur’s ass through cheap yellow fabric and moves like he was made to do nothing else. His eyes never leave Arthur’s face.

They pour themselves into a cab three hours later, both too drunk and shaky to drive. They make out in the back seat while the driver yells at them in Serbian and swears a blue streak all the way up Hollywood Boulevard.

When they slam through the door of the suite, Arthur dimly registers that everything is put back together, that Cobb must’ve had the hotel crew working all night cleaning the carpets, replacing the furniture, straightening the decor. It hardly matters. They knock a painting off the wall their first minute in the room. 

They tear the clothes from each other, greedy and graceless. Arthur eyes the pile of ruined neon on the floor and thinks, _good._

 _Good_ _riddance_.

They’re too tired to fuck, but they make a valiant effort at it. They get as far as pressing into bed and licking the sweat from each other’s skin when Arthur spits on his palm and grips between the two of them, knowing it’s all they can manage before collapsing into sleep. He pulls an exhausted orgasm from Eames, and then comes right after, panting harshly, tasting Eames on the air.   

They don’t even attempt a half-assed cleanup, and Arthur falls asleep with Eames still on top of him, thinking that they’ll be smelly and sticky and absolutely miserable tomorrow. He doesn’t care. 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur’s eyes feel rusted shut. He digs the heel of his palm into them, clearing away the debris.

The morning light is coming in through the curtains, bright and clear. Eames is there, half on top of Arthur and half spread out next to him, breathing evenly. This is the first time he’s woken up before Eames, Arthur realizes. There is something bewitching about it, about Eames in bed with him, quiet and unguarded.

Arthur reaches out, spreading his fingers over Eames’ shoulder. He’s still not used to this—being able to touch someone easily, knowing it’s welcome. He traces the tattoos that whirl and meet at the center of Eames’ back, learning their shape.

Some are easy to understand—a Union Jack, a spread of four aces. Others are a complete mystery to Arthur. There is a cluster of birds just above Eames’ shoulder, inked in heavy black. There is something in what looks like Russian running down the length of his spine. There are three red circles, each inside the other. There is a small inscription under his rib, _having nothing, nothing can he lose_.

Arthur catalogues them, commits them to memory. There is a story spilled out across Eames’ skin and he wants to learn it; he wants to touch each piece of ink and ask Eames why he chose it, wants to know if it means something beautiful or scandalous or sad. He considers waking Eames up, right then, to explain the riddle of shapes and lines to him.

Arthur doesn’t. But the temptation is there, sharp and needy, like the pain of biting your own tongue.

Arthur climbs out of bed, moving carefully so as not to wake Eames. He pulls on a clean t-shirt and a too-big pair of Eames’ jeans, then leaves the suite, closing the door behind him.

He walks around for a bit, letting the early California sun tease his skin. He picks up two cappuccinos and a loaf of soft, flaking bread from a bakery on Ashley. There is fresh jam too, rows and rows of it, thick glass jars filled with blackberries and currants and sweet grapes. He buys one of every kind. 

Eames is still asleep when he walks back into the suite. Arthur is abruptly grateful, realizing he hadn’t even left a note.

He puts the bags on the table, trying not to make too much noise as he unpacks everything. The bread is still warm. He cracks it apart with his hands, dipping a chuck straight into the dense, dark jam. He groans at how good it is. 

He doesn’t have plates, so he sets everything up on napkins, balancing the jars precariously in one hand with both coffees tucked under his arm. Eames is just starting to stumble awake when he walks into the bedroom.

“Arthur?” Eames asks, bleary.  

“That’s me,” Arthur says. 

“S’not possible,” Eames mumbles. “Arthur would be sacked out in bed like a lump of potatoes.”

“Asshole.”

“Ah,” Eames says, grinning into the pillow. “It is Arthur, then.”

Arthur kicks Eames with the heel of his foot as he plops down onto the bed, not quite accidentally.

“Oi,” Eames grunts. “No need for that.”

“You better be nice, I brought you breakfast.”

Eames lifts his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “You brought me breakfast?”

“Wake up, the coffee is getting cold.”

Arthur frowns at the mess he’s making, the crumbs from the bread already scattering into the sheets. He sweeps them away as best he can, then sits the jars on top of the flat side of a book he stole from the hotel desk. He’s got everything balanced and is just about to open the jam when Eames touches his hand, stopping him.

“You brought me breakfast,” Eames repeats, clear-eyed now. He is beaming at Arthur like Arthur is the source of every good thing in the world. 

“I—it’s not a big deal,” Arthur says, flushing down the back of his neck.    

Eames yanks him forward by the soft cotton of his shirt, scattering the arranged display. He doesn’t kiss Arthur like it’s morning. He kisses like it's goodbye at midnight, drunk and little bit dirty. 

“You have morning breath,” Arthur says, knocking the jam off the bed as he shifts his knees forward to straddle Eames. The jars tumble across the floor, hitting the far wall with a _clink, clink, clink._

“Stop then,” Eames says, and sucks Arthur’s lip between his teeth.

Arthur can’t, doesn’t.  

They roll all over the bed, hands slow and heavy. It’s only when Eames’ stomach makes a sound like an engine backfiring that they laugh and break apart.

Eames tears into the breakfast Arthur bought him, scraping bread all the way to the bottom of the jars and making obscene noises every time he takes a bite. Arthur smiles, licking a glob of dark red jam from his thumb. It tastes wild and thick with spring.  

“Wait until you try the preserves from Harrods,” Eames says. “You’ll love them. You’ll love London.”

“Isn’t it freezing in London?”

Eames laughs, shaking his head as he opens the last jar. “I’ll buy you a coat,” Eames says. “And a car with seat warmers.”

“You’re not buying me a car.”   

“Don’t be daft, you’ll need one,” Eames says, talking around a mouthful of bread and jam. “The Lamborghini is yours whenever we’re in the states, but you’ll need a car to get around London.”

“Eames, I don’t want—”

“No no, I know, you wouldn't want anything else, you’re in love with the Lamborghini. But it’s a nightmare getting a car over an ocean, and there is no point to it, really. We can get the same exact model in London if you like. Though have you ever driven a Lotus? I think you’d love—”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur says, cutting him off. “You know I don’t actually give a shit about the car, right?”

“What are you on about?” Eames says, his forehead creasing. “You adore that car.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s fucking gorgeous, and I—” Arthur digs his hands into his hair, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t about cars or clothes or any of that.” 

“I don’t understand what you—”

“I don’t give a shit about your money, Eames. Tell me you know that.”  

Eames’ eyes soften. He reaches out, touching the messy hair curling around Arthur’s ear. “I know that.”

“Good,” Arthur says. “We need to talk about what happens in London then, because I’m not going to let you foot the bill for my entire life.”

“Of course you’re not,” Eames says, rolling his eyes a little, like he already has Arthur all figured out. “Though it would make things much simpler if you did.”

“Well, sorry,” Arthur says. “I’m not.” 

“I know you don’t care about my money, Arthur, but I do hope you realize I have quite a lot of it. If I want to spend it on you, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able—”

“I have no interest in becoming some kept boy,” Arthur says, letting a little venom into the words. 

Arthur has hustled for money—he’s played cards with a loaded die, let men fuck him for cash, stolen when he had to. Arthur’s clever and he’s done a lot of things to stay afloat, but he’s never accepted a dime of charity, and he’s not about to start now, not with Eames.

“I don’t want you to be a kept anything,” Eames says. “I want you to work for me.”

“Don’t do that,” Arthur groans, rubbing both hands over his face. “Don’t patronize me, okay, giving a job to the person you’re fucking is just as bad as—”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames says, gripping his shoulders and jostling him a little. Arthur looks at him. “It’s not like that. Christ, you’re so brilliant, I’d be daft not to hire you. And I lost my head of research this week, in case you missed that—I need someone I can trust. I need you to do this.” 

Arthur frowns, not sure what to think.

“And you’re not just someone I’m _fucking_. Bloody hell,” Eames says, and then swears in what sounds like Polish.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not exactly a relationship expert myself, but that’s no reason to—”

“You don’t get what I’m saying,” Arthur tells him. “I’m not—I’ve never had to plan shit out with someone else. I’ve been on my own basically my whole life and I’m good at that. I have no fucking idea how to—do this.”

Arthur watches all the frustration fall away from Eames. He touches Arthur’s face, sketching the strong curve of his cheekbone.

“We’ll manage,” he says.

Arthur closes his eyes, leaning into the pressure of Eames’ hand.

“We could just run away,” Arthur suggests. “You know, no plans, life of crime, the whole thing.” 

“That appeals to you, does it?” Eames says, laughing again, warm and easy. “Let’s pack, then. Mombasa it is.” 

“How about Paris?”

“Paris,” Eames repeats, the word a warm rumble on his tongue. “Paris would suit you.”

“You think so?” 

Eames leans in, pressing his mouth to the low curve of Arthur’s throat.

“Oh yes.”

Arthur savors the slow attention of Eames’ mouth, all the way until the clock catches his eye. “I hate to bring this up,” he says, “but you have a board meeting in half an hour”

Eames groans against his skin. “I have absolutely no interest,” he says, lips catching on Arthur’s collarbone, “in heading into the office today.”

“But today is the big day,” Arthur says, letting his hands flex into Eames’ hair. “Once we get the committee review called, that’s it, your acquisition goes through.”

Eames makes a non-committal noise.

“Aren’t you happy?”

“I suppose,” Eames says. “But the win isn’t any fun, really. Too much paperwork. The interesting bit is figuring out how to get there.” 

“You really don’t care about acquiring Fischer-Morrow?” Arthur asks, pulling apart from Eames to look at him.

“Not particularly,” Eames says. “I fought hard for it because it was supposed to be impossible. Now that we’ve sorted out how to do it, the thrill is done with.”

“Is that why you do this?” Arthur asks, sitting back. “For a thrill?”

“In part, yes.” Eames says. 

“What’s the other part?” 

“All the usual reasons why people do what they do, I suppose.” Eames piles the empty jars into his hands and gets up from the bed.

“This is the fourth time I’ve asked you why you do this job, and you still haven’t given me a straight answer,” Arthur says. 

Eames is facing away from him, stacking the jam jars on top of the desk.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” Eames asks. He picks up one of the jars again, thumbing over the design etched into the glass.

“Why is it such a secret?” Arthur says. “You already told me about what you did before, about Cobb and the rest of it. Why that and not—”

“Arthur, leave it alone,” Eames says. His back is ramrod straight, alarmingly still.

Arthur gets up from the bed, not entirely sure what to do. His first instinct is to give Eames some space, but he thinks that might be the wrong move here. He walks over to him instead, pressing in close. He lets his hands come to rest in the middle of Eames’ back. His thumbs skim over the skin a little, back and forth. 

Arthur feels horrifically out of place. He has no idea how to touch someone this way, how to give simple comforts with his body. He hopes he’s doing it right.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me,” Arthur says. The words are gentle on the back of Eames’ neck. “But you fucking can, you know.”

Eames exhales, and Arthur can feel it under his hands, the distinct shudder of something coming loose. 

“I killed my father.”

Arthur’s mouth opens and closes, trying to pull something to say out from the air.

“Not in the way you’re thinking just now,” Eames says. “It was his chronic disappointment in me that really did him in.”

“How—what do you mean?” 

“When I left Oxford, I was gone, entirely gone. No trace. They assumed I was dead after awhile,” Eames says. “The prevailing theory was that it was a ransom kidnapping gone awry. I think that suited them—getting to think of their son as some sort of evergreen martyr to their wealth.” Eames laughs a little under his breath. “They were genuinely appalled to find out I was alive.”

“Eames—” 

“It was so satisfying at the time, showing up on their doorstep just to tell them what shits they were,” Eames says, his voice raw and low. “I wanted them to know I wasn’t dead, that I was alive and I was choosing to live apart and be all the things that they hated.”

Arthur can’t think of anything to do but lean into Eames, his forehead coming to rest between his shoulder blades.

“His heart was never quite right, is the thing,” Eames says. “He’d had surgeries three or four times over the course of my life, so it wasn’t—and his business had been failing for years. Finding out his son was a thief, a liar, and a pouf were just the last daggers.” 

“Eames, you’re not responsible for—”

“He died eleven days after that,” Eames says. “He left me the company. And a letter.”

Silence settles between them, until Arthur gathers up the nerve to ask. “What did it say?”

“ _For you, if you’re man enough_ ,” Eames recites, drawing the text immediately from memory. “ _I suppose you couldn’t botch it any worse than I have. Then again, you were always surprising.”_

Eames slumps forward, pressing his palms flat on the desk. “My father was not a particularly funny man, but he did always enjoy being clever with his cruelty.”

Arthur can’t find any words for it—for how fiercely he wants to tear the weight of those three sentences from Eames, for how illogical it is to be furious at a dead man he never met.

“I wouldn’t have thought, not in a thousand years, that he’d leave the company to me,” Eames says. “But the letter made it clear why he—well, he won either way, didn’t he? If I refused to take it on, it’d prove him entirely right about me, that I was always a coward. If I did take it on, I would inevitably fail, and then everyone would get to declare that it was my incompetency that ruined his legacy, not his own mismanagement, even though the company was nearly bankrupt when he left it to me.”

“But you didn’t fail. You changed the entire structure of the business,” Arthur says. “You exceeded every single quarterly prediction—you’re ten times more successful than he was.”

Eames turns around. He looks at Arthur, a tired smile on his lips. “It was the only way I could win.”

Arthur touches Eames’ face, his knuckles rasping over the light stubble collected there.

“But that doesn’t explain,” Arthur says, his voice careful, “why you’re still doing it.”

Eames fixes his jaw. He glares at some distant point across the room, over Arthur’s shoulder. 

“You’ve proven him wrong. Why can’t you let this go?” 

Eames says nothing.

“You _hate_ this job. I’ve heard you say it yourself, I’ve seen—”

“What do you suppose I should do, then?” Eames says, his eyes snapping back to Arthur. “Hand the company over to the board? Leave what I built behind and prove him right, that I’m nothing but a petulant child who quits whenever he likes?”

“You deserve your own life, Eames,” Arthur says. “That’s not being petulant, that’s—”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, and frankly, it’s nothing to do with you,” Eames says, his words sharp.  

Arthur takes a step back. He stares at Eames, his jaw working. “So, after one week, you know everything about me and what’s best for my life—but I don’t know shit about you? Is that how it is?”

“It’s not like that. You just can’t understand what I’m—”

A hard laugh scrapes out of Arthur’s throat.

“Right, sorry. I forgot for a second that I suck cock for a living and cannot possibly be smart enough to—”

“I owe him a debt!” Eames shouts. Arthur flinches at the sound. “I’m—he was horrible to me my entire life, but he was my father, and I owe him a debt.”

“You didn’t actually kill him,” Arthur says, slow and measured. “Tell me you know that.”

“I know I didn’t put a gun to his head, but it’s—”

“You can’t stay trapped under some misplaced sense of guilt for the rest of your life. You aren’t responsible for this,” Arthur says. “He died, Eames. People die.”

“What in the bloody hell would you know about it?”

“Did you really just say that to me?” Arthur asks, his composure shattering. “You know what? You were handed a ten billion dollar company as a ‘fuck you’. As tragedies go, that doesn’t rank so goddamn high for me.”

“Arthur, I didn’t—”

“You can go to hell.”

Arthur snatches the valet ticket from the desk and walks away, ignoring Eames following behind him.

“Stop, Arthur, I shouldn’t have—”

“You want to talk about people dying?” Arthur shouts, rounding on Eames when he catches up to him at the doorway. “Okay, let’s talk about being five years old and having the cops come pick you up from school instead of your mom. And when you scream and beg to know what’s going on, someone finally sits you down and tells you that she’s dead. The only person you have is gone, you’re never going to see her again, and you never say goodbye. How about that?”

Tears are burning, wet and fierce in Arthur’s eyes. He refuses to let them fall.

“Arthur,” Eames says. He is stricken, pale and wide-eyed. “Christ, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Go fuck yourself.” Arthur turns toward the window, folding his arms and facing away from Eames.

One tight minute passes, and then, very deliberately, Eames takes a step forward. He is slow in his approach, every movement telegraphed. Arthur doesn’t stop it. When Eames slides his arms around him, one and then the other, Arthur feels himself start to shake.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says, a gust of breath into his hair. “Arthur, I’m so sorry.”

Arthur hears a sound, something hard and ugly. It takes him a moment to realize he’s the one making it. Eames turns him around in his arms, pulling him in tight, so tight that Arthur thinks his ribs might crush under the press. He claws at Eames—at his shoulders, his back—half fighting from being coddled and half begging for him to grip in closer.

He hasn’t cried this way since he was a kid. He forgot how it could feel, like your body is being scraped raw from the inside. He lets out huge, heaving sobs, and Eames holds him, arms wound tight like a knot, keeping all his seams together. 

They end up on the floor, Arthur lumped in a heap and Eames sitting with him, holding him upright. When Arthur’s breathing starts to even out, he hears Eames say, “She isn’t the only person you have.”

Arthur breathes, and breathes, and almost believes it.

  

 


	18. Chapter 18

The water feels warm and heavy where it runs down his back. Arthur bends under it, stretching his shoulders open. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, when he comes back to himself. 

“God, Arthur, don’t.” The words pour out in a rush, like Eames was holding them just behind his teeth. “Don’t apologize.”

“No, I need to,” Arthur says, turning to face Eames under the spray. “You told me something important and I threw it back in your face.”

“I deserved it,” Eames says. “Christ, I was complete fucking arse.” The water is hitting him at an odd angle, making his hair spike and flatten in clumsy patterns. He really is so young, Arthur thinks. They both are.

“Can we not do this?” Arthur asks, exhausted all of the sudden. “We’re both fucking idiots. Let’s just leave it there.”

Eames blinks the water from his eyes. “Alright,” he says.

Then, slowly, slow enough that Arthur could stop it at any moment, Eames presses him back against the cool tile, and kisses him.

Arthur doesn’t bother to count the time, but he’s sure it goes on longer than he’s ever kissed anyone. It doesn’t feel like the prelude to something else. It feels like the main event. Eames skims his hands down, knotting them with Arthur’s against the tile. It is achingly tender, and Arthur lets a soft, helpless sound roll from his throat. Eames has a way of slipping past him, of getting a messy fist around his heart. It’s too much, Arthur thinks. It is terrifying, to feel this, to hold someone like blood in the veins.

They pull apart when the water runs cold. Arthur thinks they may have managed to use up all the hot water in the hotel. He’s considering it, making calculations with gallons over minutes in his mind, when Eames wraps a towel around him and says, “What was she like?”

Arthur doesn’t think he can answer at first. He’s sure there aren’t words whole enough for it, for what she was. He is thinking of how to invent them when he hears himself say, “She was lovely.”

“Of course she was,” Eames says. His eyes are very serious, like it never occurred to him that she could be anything else. Arthur’s heart swings open like a trapdoor. 

“You’re late,” Arthur says. It catches in his throat, gives him away.

Eames steps closer, tracing Arthur’s iliac bone where it peeks out from the towel. 

“You never know,” Eames says. He thumbs the heavy line of it, back and forth. “I think they schedule the meetings an hour later than they tell me they’re set to start.” 

“I wonder why,” Arthur says. His mouth twitches up at the corners.

Eames squeezes his hip, smiling crookedly, all his easy grace returned. “Will you come meet me afterwards?”

“You don’t want me to come now?”

“I was hoping you could sort through the information on the thumbdrive, figure out what we need,” Eames says, walking over to the closet. 

“What’s on the drive exactly?” 

“According to Cobb,” Eames says, frowning at his selection of dress shirts, “something that will persuade a particularly naughty Australian parliamentary member that it would be in his best interest to call a committee for us.” 

“So, I will be preparing blackmail while you are in your board meeting?” 

“Terribly unfair, isn’t it? You’ll be having all the fun.” Eames smiles, throwing a dark red tie around his neck. “Meet me after?”

“Sure.”

“Noon, lets say?”

“Yeah, that’s—Jesus, just let me do it.” Arthur walks over and yanks the sloppy knot out of Eames’ tie. He redoes the whole thing, taming the long lines of silk into a neat double-windsor.

“I could get used to this, you know,” Eames says. 

“What?” Arthur smooths the tie down the center of Eames’ chest, making sure it lines up properly with the placket. “Me blackmailing politicians on your behalf?”

“Having you here,” Eames says. “Mornings with you. Working with you.” 

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, swallowing against some feeling he can't quite place. “If that means I’m going to get shot at on a regular basis, I expect hazard pay.”

“I’m sorry you got caught up in all that,” Eames says. He runs his hand through Arthur’s damp hair, coaxing him closer.

“I can take care of myself,” Arthur says.  

“Doesn’t mean I had any right to get you involved.”

“Does that kind of shit happen often?” 

“No, not often,” Eames says. “But it does happen.”

“Can you at least nail Browning for it?”

“No, afraid not,” Eames says. “Men like that don’t give away their employers. If they did, they’d be dead or out of a job.”

“We don’t need them to talk. We already know it was Browning.”

“Yes, but there is nothing we can prove—”

“I get that we can’t prove shit, but it was _him,”_ Arthur says. “Browning hired three assholes to break in here and one of them emptied a gun at me. Don’t you think you should tell Fischer about that?”

“Hmm.” Eames sighs. “I suppose he should know that dear Uncle Peter is a bit of a lunatic.”

“Will he hate you after this?”

“I’m certain Browning already does, love.” 

“Not him.” Arthur says. “Fischer. You two were—I mean, you knew him before all this.”

“Yes.”

“How close were the two of you?”

Eames walks over to the desk, loading his laptop and wallet into his briefcase. “It was a long time ago.” 

“Were you in love with him?”

Arthur doesn’t know why he asks it. Eames looks at him like he just spoke another language.

“Christ, no,” Eames says, laughing. “God, Arthur, it was nothing like that. We were kids. I liked blokes, I liked pissing off my father, Robert was there. That was it.” 

Arthur feels stupid for the way relief unfurls in his stomach, warm and low.  

“Okay, but you were together. So I just—isn’t this weird?” Arthur says. “To be taking his company?”

“It wasn’t his company when this all began,” Eames says, turning around to slide on his jacket. “It was Maurice’s. And I can assure you he very much deserved to have it taken away.” 

“But it’s not his now, it’s Robert’s,” Arthur says. “Does that bother you?”  

Eames thumbs the latch on his briefcase. “It’s not exactly—I’d have preferred it not to happen this way.”

“You could let it go, you know.”

Eames turns around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You could let it go,” Arthur repeats. “We could just—not do this. Not make the call to the legislator, not force the committee review. You could let the acquisition fold.”

“Why would I ever do something like that?” Eames asks, his brow cut deep with a frown.

“Because you’re ridiculously rich and you don’t need the money.”

“I’ve spent half a year on this, Arthur. I have a reputation. There are investors, I could never—”

“You’re _miserable_ ,” Arthur says. “I get that you can’t—that you won’t walk away from this job altogether. I get that, I get your reasons. But you could let this one acquisition die if you wanted to.”

“I am not miserable.” 

“You bought a Lamborghini and a hooker this week,” Arthur says, his mouth a flat line.

For a second, Arthur thinks Eames is going to shut down again, maybe throw some more barbed words at him. Instead, he huffs out a small, tired laugh and takes a seat on the bed. “You may have a point.”

“Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” Arthur says, in a softer tone. “I will pick up this phone right now and blackmail the legislator for you and get the committee review called and you can break up Fischer’s empire into a thousand tiny pieces, I don’t give a shit. Actually, I kind of hope you do, because it’d really piss off Browning, and pissing off Browning sounds pretty fucking great right now.”

Eames smiles. Arthur sits down next to him on the bed.

“But you don’t actually have to do it,” Arthur says. “I just thought someone should say that to you.”

Eames shifts closer, taking Arthur’s hand in his own.

“Thank you,” Eames says. “It is a bit stupid to suggest.” Arthur uses his free hand to punch Eames in the shoulder, and Eames laughs. “But I appreciate it.” He grips Arthur’s hand tighter. “Really, more than you know.”

Arthur is caught for a second, dazed in the headlights, by the way Eames is looking at him. 

“You are so, so late,” Arthur says, instead of anything treacherously sentimental. 

“Christ, I really am.” Eames laughs, standing up and grabbing his briefcase. “I’ll see you at the office. Noon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “See you then.”

Eames winks at him as the door falls closed. Arthur sighs, smiling a little as he scrubs a hand over his face.

He walks back into the bedroom, considering what clothes to wear. He has a jacket and shirt laid out on the bed when he hears a knock. He rolls his eyes, figuring Eames must’ve left his keycard and phone and who knows what else. 

“I forgot just one thing,” Eames says, when Arthur opens the door for him.

Arthur has his mouth open around a jab, something about Eames being an idiot, when Eames catches his mouth, cutting him off. Eames slides two hands around the small of his back. Arthur arches into it. It’s brief, the kiss, but full of something bright and heavy. 

“Thank you,” Eames says, pulling back just enough to spill the words over Arthur’s mouth, “for breakfast.”

Before Arthur can say anything, can even blink back the daze from his eyes, Eames is already in the elevator, already gone.

  

 

***

 

 

Arthur is dressed, shaved, and on to his second cup of coffee when there is another knock at the door. He laughs a little, wondering if Eames forgot something else or if he decided to ditch his meeting altogether. 

When Arthur opens the door, a fist connects with the side of his head. It’s a sucker punch, a solid one, and he’s not expecting it. It lands him flat on his back.

Before he can react, the hard sole of a shoe connects with his nose. Once, then twice.

He tastes blood on the back of his tongue. Everything goes black.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur blinks. His eyelids feel heavy, hard to move. He can’t make out any shapes, can’t tell where he is yet, but the light resolves slowly around him. It’s low, strangely dim.

He blinks again. It’s an effort.

He realizes the light is strange because he’s on the floor, his face pressed into the carpet. He tries to lift his head, but he can’t. He’s not sure if it’s just because he’s dizzy or if someone is holding him down. His left cheek is buried in the grains of the rug. He blinks again, and the room becomes clearer. He takes in the hazy sight of a couch next to him. The couch is from—the suite. He’s in the suite.

That’s when Arthur remembers it. The door, the punch, the shoe slamming his face. The memory hits him like hot adrenaline; his entire body draws taut with awareness.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” says Nash, a saccharine drag to his voice. Arthur feels a clammy hand pet his hair. “It’ll be much more fun this way.”

Arthur thrashes hard, trying to flip around and grab Nash by the neck, but he can’t. He can’t move.

He thrashes again, assessing his bindings. His hands are tied behind his back. Arthur tries to break the hold, but he can’t—it’s something strong, cable wiring probably. He tests his legs, tries to spring out with his knees, but he can’t. He can’t move them. One of his ankles is bound to the couch, and the other to—something else, the desk maybe. Arthur thrashes again, just to be sure.

“You can keep trying, but it’s going to be pointless.” Nash yanks the bindings on Arthur’s wrists tighter, cutting into his skin. Arthur grunts, aware of pain everywhere. “After what you did to those guys we hired, I made sure to come prepared.”

Arthur could—he thinks he could maybe get himself part-way out of the bindings, could get _some_ leverage, if it weren’t for the heavy weight low on his back, pinning him to the floor. Nash is sitting on top of him.

“You’ve had a pretty interesting career, Arthur. Can I call you Arthur? Or do you prefer something else while we do this?” Nash asks. “Travis? Dylan? Nick? I’ve heard you usually go by one of those when you get fucked on a hotel floor.”

Arthur feels a raw red panic burn through him. Nash knows.

“The thing is, Arthur, you may have gotten me fired—but backgrounds, research, that’s what I do,” Nash says. “You didn’t make it easy, I’ll give you that. But I’m pretty good when I need to be.” His voice is low, dangerous, almost a purr. “So tell me—what is a cheap cock whore like you doing with Edward Eames?”

Arthur tries to yell, tries to spit a blue streak at Nash, but there is something lodged in his mouth that keeps him from crying out.

Nash gagged him.

Gagging was always a hard limit with his clients. He never—that’s what they used to do to him in high school, at the dumpsters behind the gym, they—one of them would shove a sock into his mouth, would hold him down, while the other—

“Did you lie to him?” Nash asks. “Pretend to be some kind of consultant so you could get close to him?” Nash grabs a fistful of Arthur’s hair and yanks, wrenching his neck back. “Or did he just pick you up off the street? Hmm?”

Arthur thrashes again. He tries to throw an elbow, tries to unbalance Nash, _something_. Nash laughs at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You were his whore, but you made him think you were smart, smart enough that he brought you in on the Fischer-Morrow case.” Nash slams Arthur’s face to the floor, still laughing. “God, Eames is such a sucker for something pretty.”

Nash grabs Arthur’s shirt, rucking it up his back, exposing him. Arthur struggles, tries to throw him off, but it’s useless.

“What did he tell you? Hmm? That you were gorgeous? That you were brilliant?” Nash gets impatient, ripping the shirt from Arthur with rough hands. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but he says that to everyone he fucks.”

Arthur screams against the rag in his mouth, more out of frustration than anything. He knows no one is going to hear him.

“He said it to me a hundred times,” Nash murmurs, digging his fingernails into Arthur’s skin. Arthur starts to shake. “Did he tell you about that? Hmm? That he fucked me? And Fischer, too? It’s nothing compared to the territory you take in, I’m sure, but Eames likes to get around. And I can promise you,” Nash leans low, biting the words out against Arthur’s ear, “that you are nothing special.”

Nash lifts up Arthur’s head and slams it into the carpet again. Arthur cries out, the sound muffled by the gag.

“Whatever he said—whatever he made you think was between you two—it’s bullshit. He’s going to leave you the second he gets bored, the way he always does.”

Panic grips Arthur everywhere, like a second skin. Nash is touching him with intent, dragging rough hands all over him, and Arthur can’t breathe, he can’t, he—

“I’ll admit, he does seem to like you. You must be a fantastic fuck.” Nash licks a wet stripe up the back of Arthur’s neck. “Guess I’ll find out.” 

Arthur screams against the carpet, trying to thrash his hips, twist his arms, anything, _anything_ , to keep Nash from—

Suddenly, everything is too loud. There is the sound of wood breaking apart, of bone hitting bone. There is a scream, Arthur thinks. It’s hard to tell. He can barely hear it over the churning sound of blood under his skin, his heartbeat kicked like a drum. Then Nash’s weight is off of him, and all Arthur can think is _run, run, run, run._ He is struggling violently against his bindings, trying to angle for some kind of leverage, when he feels a set of hands on him again. He flinches, breathing hard into the rag.

“Arthur, Arthur, shh, it’s me,” Eames says, low and close. “Arthur, I’m here, it’s— Christ, I'm—it’ll be okay, it’ll be alright.”

Arthur feels the bindings snap away, first at his hands, then at his ankles. As soon as he’s free, he springs up from the floor, dragging the gag out of his mouth.

“Arthur, wait, you need to—”

Arthur nearly falls over when he gets to his feet, slammed with a thick wave of dizziness. Eames grabs hold of him.

“Don’t touch me,” Arthur snaps, wrenching away. All Arthur can think is that he needs to get out of here, he needs to _go_ , he needs to—

“Arthur, stop,” Eames says. “You have to sit down.”

“Fuck off,” Arthur says, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. He sees that Nash is crumpled on the floor next to the couch, not moving. Eames tries to reach for him again, but Arthur flinches back. Eames drops his hands.

“You’re in shock,” Eames says, keeping a careful distance. “Please, you have to sit down.” 

Arthur laughs. It’s an ugly, split sound. “Eames, this is the least shocking thing could have fucking happened.”

Arthur makes his way towards the bedroom, breathing slowly, settling himself. He touches his nose, his jaw. Somehow, neither came out broken.

Eames follows him. “You need to slow down—” 

Arthur goes to the sink, splashing water on his face. He uses a towel to wipe off the worst of the blood. He combs out a matted section of hair with his fingers. 

“Please, Arthur, talk to me—”

“There’s nothing to say.” Arthur peels off the remains of his shirt, wincing when the sleeves snag on his bruised wrists.

“How—what happened?” Eames asks. “How did Nash—”

“I opened the door. He knocked me out, tied me up. That’s it.” The words feel like churned gravel in Arthur’s mouth.

He walks over to the closet, picks out a clean shirt, and puts it on. Then he takes out a leather overnight bag—one of the many items Mal picked out for him—and starts to pack, grabbing things here and there from around the room. Eames hovers near him the entire time, a shadow on his movements, but he doesn’t try to touch Arthur again.

“Are you alright?” Eames asks. “Christ, Arthur, will you _talk_ to me?”

“Did you fuck Nash?” Arthur asks, stopping what he’s doing to look at Eames. 

“What?” 

“Did you ever fuck Nash?” Arthur asks. “It’s a simple question.”

Eames’ face is a mess of emotion. “Yes. But that was—”

“—a long time ago?” Arthur finishes for him.

“Don’t do this,” Eames says. “Please, just sit for a second.” 

Arthur ignores him, folding shirts into the open bag. He is almost done, almost has everything packed, when he freezes, a beautiful blue suit in his hands.

None of this is his.

He lets the suit drop to the floor, his hands shaking. None of this is his.

He was an idiot—he was _insane—_ to think any of it was. The car, the suits, Eames, all of it, it was never his. Not one scrap of this life was meant for him.

Arthur walks out of the bedroom, taking nothing with him.

His hand is already on the doorknob when Eames catches up with him; Eames slaps his palm flat against the door, holding it closed.

“So you’re going to just go?” Eames asks, his voice breaking. “You’re just—that’s it, you’re gone?”

It’s so awful, the way Eames is looking at him, that Arthur almost wants to stay. He thinks about how easy it would be—to drop his weight against Eames, to let Eames stroke his back, clean his cuts, fix him.

“I’m just cutting to the punch line,” Arthur says.

“What bloody punch line? What is going on?”

Arthur jerks the door handle. Eames keeps it closed. 

“No,” Eames says. “No, I am not stepping out of the way until you tell me why you’re leaving.” 

“Because there is no _point_ ,” Arthur spits, his composure breaking. “You want to take me to London, tether me to this life you hate, and then what? When you get bored with me, what happens? I end up stranded in a different fucking country?” 

“What are you—Arthur, it would never be like that.” 

“Don’t bullshit me, okay,” Arthur says. “We both know how this goes.” 

“No,” Eames says. “No, I really don’t think I do.”

“Nash, Fischer, fucking _Claude,_ it’s—we’re disposable. I get that, okay, I really do. That’s your thing, it’s—I get it,” Arthur says. “But don’t make a bunch of shitty promises to me and pretend this is something else.” 

“I meant every word I said to you,” Eames tells him fiercely. “I want to be with you. I want to work with you. I—”

“Nash knew who I was!” Arthur shouts, cutting him off. “He knew what I did, okay, he _knew_. If he could figure it out, then anyone with half a brain—I can’t work with you, Eames. I can’t be anywhere near you.”

“Fine,” Eames says. “Fine, alright, you’ll—we’ll figure something out.”

“There is nothing to figure out.” Arthur jerks the doorknob, hard, throwing Eames’ hand off. The door flies open and Arthur walks down the hall towards the elevator. 

“What you and I are is nothing to do with Nash or Fischer or any of them,” Eames says, following after him. “ _Nothing_ , alright.”

“Are you kidding?” Arthur laughs, hitting the down button on the elevator. “How is this any different?”

“Because I bloody love you, Arthur!” Eames nearly screams it, his voice shaking. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to feel that for anything, but it’s here, now, between us, and there is no pulling it back. I love you, alright?”

Arthur’s entire body draws still. “You just met me,” he says, slow, measuring out the words. “You don’t love me, okay, that’s insane.”

“Tell me you don’t feel the same,” Eames challenges, pressing up into Arthur’s space. “Tell me that, right now, and I’ll let you go. I won’t try to follow.” 

“I don’t love you,” Arthur replies immediately. His voice is solid, even. 

Eames takes a step back, his face bled of all color. He swallows hard, says nothing.

The elevator dings.

“Arthur,” Eames says, just once, as the doors slide open. It’s heavy and terrible. It sounds nothing like a name.

Arthur steps inside. The doors close.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur walks back to his apartment.

Somewhere along the way, he remembers he still has both phones on him. He takes the one Eames gave him out from his pocket. He dumps it, making sure to smash the SIM card first, not wanting to leave anything that could be traced.

He realizes, right after he does it, that the video was on there. The one Eames made of them yesterday morning. It’s—that’s gone now.

Arthur has to stop. He has to—he stops. He turns into an alley and lets his knees fall out from under him. His back slides down the cement wall, burning against the scratch marks Nash made.

He can’t breathe, not for—not for a long time. He has to put his head between his knees and just—be. Just be still. He takes huge, gulping gasps of air. His body shakes. It shakes so hard his teeth rattle, but the tears don’t come. Nothing, not even one. There is no release. 

His hand trembles as he pulls out his phone. He dials the last number he programmed into it.  

He waits. Two rings, three rings. And then—

“Cobb,” Arthur chokes out, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll—I’m in. I’ll take the job.” 

 

 


	19. Interlude

Berlin suits Arthur.

He adores the clean lines of it, the exquisite starkness. He glances his hand along glass walls, along fountain edges and museum doors, drinking in every unadorned detail.

The job is quick—runs flawlessly. Or as flawlessly as any job can with the Cobbs.

Arthur quickly learns that when Dom says a job will have “minimal complications”, it means there will be many complications; when Dom says a job will have “some complications”, it means there will be extensive, nearly insurmountable complications; when Dom refuses to give an estimate of the number of complications, it means they’ll probably end up dead or in jail. 

It’s the most fun Arthur’s had in his life.

And he knows, after that first job, he’ll never do anything else.

 

 

***

 

 

Mal takes him to Quartier 206 just before they leave Berlin. She forces him to spend half his take on deep silks and fine woven cottons. She tuts and fusses at the shop girls, cursing them in German until they get the fit of each piece precisely right. 

Arthur thinks he and Mal are kindred in that way—both a bit too exacting for their own good.

But whenever they’re together, just the two of them, she brings out something in him that is silly, and he brings out something in her that is soft.

If you caught him on a particularly sentimental day, Arthur might say that they were meant for each other.

 

 

***

 

 

The next job is in Bangkok.

They work mostly at night, sliding in and out of the dense underworld where information flows like cheap wine, if you know where to look.

Arthur loves it just as much as Berlin, though for entirely different reasons. Bangkok at 3 A.M is nothing but candy-colored chaos, a mess of bodies moving in and out of blurred neon. The food is blistering and delicious. The clubs are mind-blowing. The sunrises are blood red, hugely beautiful.

The thing Arthur likes most, though, is the sound. Nowhere in the world sounds like Bangkok.

 

 

***

 

 

He tries, with varying degrees of success, not to think of Eames.

 

 

***

 

 

They run six jobs together, back-to-back.

The biggest surprise in all of it is not that they work together so well (they do), or that Arthur is exceptional at handling “complications” (he is), or that Mal knows how to tell someone to fuck off in 27 languages (she does)—it’s that Arthur comes to love them, the Cobbs.

Dom is an orphan too, and an American, and that means Arthur can talk shit with him about foster homes and baseball teams, about their favorite kind of sugar cereal and what shitty TV shows they miss.

It’s stupid, most of what they talk about, but Arthur’s never really had this, and it’s even more of a comfort when you’re half way across the world. Mal rolls her eyes at them, calls them her _boys_ , and as bizarre as it is, it’s the family Arthur never thought he would have.

He imagines this must be what it’s like to have very close siblings—people you trust entirely and love prodigiously, but who also drive you insane.

He would take a bullet for either of them.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur had a single condition when he accepted the Berlin job—that Eames couldn’t know about it.

Dom gave him an odd look when he said it, told Arthur he wasn’t exactly in the habit of detailing his team rosters to Eames these days, and that was that.

Mal, on the other hand, threw an unholy fit. She demanded to know exactly what had happened between him and Eames. Arthur wasn’t ready to give that story up though, not yet, not even to Mal.

He set his jaw and said nothing. They stared at one another for what felt like hours.

Finally, she walked over to him, took his face between her hands, and said, “This is really what you want?”

He nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak aloud.

She nodded in return, her eyes heavy with the understanding of what he was asking.

If Eames came to her, desperate, begging to know if she had any information about where Arthur was, she would have to lie to him. She would have to leave Eames with nothing, just as Arthur had done. This was Arthur’s condition.

On the nights when Arthur can’t sleep, when everything goes too quiet in his mind, he remembers this, and thinks he’ll never deserve forgiveness from either of them. 

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur hates Paris.

He hates the crowds on Rue Perrée. He hates the giant, hideous pyramid that marks the Louvre—hates how it stabs the skyline, ruining any small charm the street might’ve held. He hates the cheap crêpe trucks that blotch the sidewalks, catering to tourists who don’t know any better. He hates that everyone speaks English at him before he even opens his mouth, can spot him as an American from a mile away.

Arthur is only here because of Ariadne. Mal pulled some strings to get her a place at the university where her father works—which just so happens to be one of the finest architecture schools in the world, and the very place Ariadne had once told Arthur she would _kill_ to go if only she had infinite money.

It turns out Arthur is as good as infinite money these days, so he takes care of everything. He moves her to Paris, pays her tuition, and lets her ruin his brand new Dunhill when he picks her up at Charles de Gaulle, hugging her close while she cries and laughs and snots into his shirt. 

Arthur buys them an apartment in the 3rd Arrondissement, figuring it solves two problems at once—it gives Ariadne a place to live rent-free, and it gives him a place to store the mass of clothes Mal forces him to drag back from all four corners of the earth.

When Arthur brings her there, the first thing she does is test the sink.

“Hot freaking water!” she laughs, splashing him with it. She does a little victory dance in the middle of the kitchen, letting the tap run until the room fills with steam.

Arthur missed her so fucking much.

He is aware of a dim hypocrisy in all this—that what he is doing for Ariadne is exactly what he refused to let Eames do for him. But he tries to shove that thought away, fills the hollow space that Eames left with as much work as he can take on.

As a result, Arthur is almost never in Paris.

He still does Ariadne’s laundry whenever he’s in town, though.

 

 

***

 

_(If pressed,_

_Arthur will admit that the reason he hates Paris may be less about the city itself, and more about how he feels when he’s in it._

_Like it should be brighter than this. Fuller somehow._

_He tries not to think about it too much. )_

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what the Cobbs did, at first.

He knew they stole information—that they were good at it, the best. This led Arthur to a series of conclusions about their probable work practices, something along the lines of _torture, coercion, kidnapping, blackmail, etc, etc._

Arthur told Mal this when he first got to Berlin. She laughed until she couldn’t breathe, tears streaming out of the corners of her eyes.

The Cobbs, it turned out, did not torture people. They rarely even blackmailed to get their information. Most of the time, people just gave it to them.

This made no sense whatsoever to Arthur until he watched them do it. Dom and Mal have a way of coaxing detail out of people. CEOs, legislators, ambassadors, black market operators, military personnel, minor royalty—it doesn’t matter who they are. The Cobbs can crack them like a safe.

Dom in particular seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to secrets—he can tell when and why people are hiding them. Sometimes the Cobbs extract information through theatrics, like the Mr. Charles thing, but usually it’s much simpler than that. It’s about tracing the tenor of a voice, the slip of a detail. It’s a matter of precision.

Arthur isn’t involved in that part of things so much. He spends most of his time skimming the periphery of the job—researching the marks, running the groundwork, handling the logistics. He carries a gun and makes sure shit gets done.

He thought it was strange, that Dom would offer him a job like this back when they barely knew each other. But it turns out this is something Dom does. He finds people who are young and talented, people who are outsiders, and teaches them the ropes. He runs jobs with them, makes money with them, and, in the end, what Dom gets out of it is someone with zero ties or loyalties to anyone else in the business—someone who is just his, who he can trust.

He did this with Mal, with Eames, with a half-dozen others before that. Dom is a collector.

Arthur gets it, considering the way he grew up. Not having a family made Arthur prefer to do things on his own, but he can see why it would make Dom want the opposite.

In the end, most of the people Dom works with move on—start other lives, do other things. Arthur can’t see himself doing that, though. He feels a fierce loyalty to the Cobbs, would follow either of them off a cliff (he could build them all parachutes on the way down, if he had to).

Loving people makes you exceptionally stupid, Arthur supposes.

 

 

***

 

 

Mal takes Arthur out for drinks one night, months after Berlin, and finally coaxes him into pouring his heart out like a badly creased love letter.

She doesn’t judge him for what he did, just sighs a little, her eyes soft and brimming with heartache.

Arthur wants to ask her if she’s heard from Eames. He wants to know if Eames is doing well, if he’s happy. He wants to know if Eames ever asked about him.

The questions are desperate, burning on his tongue.

He doesn’t ask them. He doesn’t think he has any right to the answers.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur fucks someone in Madrid. He does it mostly to see how it’ll feel, after Eames.

It never really held that much appeal for him—fucking for fun—but with Eames he had _wanted_. Arthur craved his body by the end, and he thought, or maybe hoped, that Eames was just the one who broke the dam.

He’s at a bar on Calle del Fúcar, drinking thin whisky and considering all this, when he notices a mess of dark hair and a warm syrupy voice next to him. _Good enough,_ Arthur thinks. He takes the guy—Marco?—back to his hotel and fucks him hard into the mattress. It feels good, chips away some of the stress he’s been hauling between his shoulder blades, but that’s about it.

A few nights later, he tries it again—a different bar, a different mess of hair—but the result is the same. The sex is vaguely enjoyable, a bit of a relief, but nothing more than that.

Arthur wonders if the difference is that he got to know Eames—that maybe the problem is that he’s been trying to fuck a blank slate.

He and the Cobbs are working with a fourth team member in Madrid—a thief from Luxembourg with a permanent smirk and a preference for mint tea. Jude’s job is to use the information Dom and Mal acquire about the location of a 14th century painting to steal it for them. Jude flirts with Arthur frequently and obviously throughout the job, which Arthur finds unprofessional and a little bit obnoxious. But aside from that, he likes Jude. He’s smart, he works hard, he’s always on time, and he wears exquisite dark suits imported from a tailor in France.

After those two unproductive one night stands, Arthur thinks about him.

They’re alone together late one Thursday, Arthur examining the floor plan of a storage facility near the Prado. It’s almost too easy, when Jude leans in to peer at the paperwork, for Arthur to turn his head just so—to catch Jude’s eyes and let his mouth slacken a little.

Jude takes it as the invitation that it is, and he kisses Arthur carefully, both hands curling behind his neck.

They have slow, unremarkable sex back at Jude’s hotel—Arthur a bit too detached and Jude a bit too sentimental, kissing Arthur’s face again and again.

They fuck on and off for the rest of the job, and it’s good—better than most of the sex Arthur’s had before this. It’s different from the quick bathroom fucks he’s had in clubs; _very_ different from the sex he’s had for money. But it’s nowhere near as good as it was with Eames.

Arthur smokes a cigarette on the balcony of Jude’s hotel room their last night in Madrid. _If this is as good as it gets, it’s as good as it gets,_ Arthur thinks. He can make peace with that.

He takes one last long drag, closes his eyes, and lets himself imagine Eames is the one waiting in bed.

 

 

***

 

 

“Did he come looking for me, after I left?” Arthur asks. He and Ariadne are sprawled out on the living room floor, eating weird French Doritos and watching Paris out the window.

She turns to him, a crease between her eyebrows.

“Eames," he clarifies. "The guy that I—”

“I remember who Eames is.”

Arthur nods, not quite looking at her. “Did he ever come by the apartment in LA?”

“No,” she answers, her voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says immediately. “It’s good that he didn’t. I didn’t want you to get caught in the middle of that.”

“What happened between the two of you?” she asks. “It looked like you—like there was something going on there.”

Arthur is about to dismiss the question—is going to give her a bullshit answer so she forgets the whole thing—but suddenly, he’s _talking_ , spewing out the story from beginning to end.

“Arthur,” she says, once he finishes. Her voice is very serious. “I want you to know—from the bottom of my heart—that you are a complete fucking idiot.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open. He blinks at her.

They both burst out laughing.

Arthur smacks her with a pillow, tells her to kindly go _fuck_ herself, and some time later, they fall asleep right there, the breeze from the Siene warm where it drifts over them.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur almost goes to find Eames a dozen times.

He thinks about how easy it would be, that all he would have to do is get Eames’ address and show up. It’s bewitching—the idea that Eames is just behind a door somewhere. That all Arthur would have to do is knock.

He can’t bring himself to do it, though.

The reasons change, as time goes on. At first he clings to his anger. He is furious at Eames for trying to corner him, for using a declaration of love as leverage, like it was some magic word that would make Arthur do whatever he wanted.

The anger burns quickly, though. The next thing Arthur grips onto is logic. He convinces himself that he was right to make the decision that he did—that it never would have worked between them in the end.

Arthur clings to that for a long time, lets it keep him afloat.

Eventually, though, the logic brittles, breaks apart like driftwood, and Arthur sinks into the truth. He walked out on Eames. He never gave Eames the chance to prove him wrong.

Once Arthur comes to terms with that, it’s the shame that keeps him away. He is ashamed for believing Nash’s poison instead of every reassurance Eames had given him, spoken and unspoken. He’s ashamed of himself for being stupid and weak, for breaking Eames’ heart because of it.

He’s ashamed, most of all, because of the lie. That it was the last thing he gave Eames.

Whenever Arthur thinks about trying to undo what he did, he remembers the look on Eames’ face as the elevator doors closed.

He feels like a coward. He knows he’s a coward.

He can’t go back.

 

 

***

 

 

Arthur, Dom, and Mal are in Belgrade, freezing their asses off while they trail some mob lord just to figure out where he drops his cash. There is nothing about the job that is particularly interesting; it takes none of their usual skill or proficiency. Dom only accepted it because it paid a barrel and seemed stupidly easy.

It _is_ easy—but also mind numbing and tedious and absolutely below all of them.

After it’s over, Arthur is hit with the unfamiliar desire to do something ridiculous, so he decides to fly to Italy and buy a car.

He asks Mal to come with him, which is his first mistake. She is so thrilled by the unprecedented event of Arthur deciding to spend money on himself that she elevates things from ridiculous to frighteningly extravagant. She insists they forego dealerships all together and instead sneak their way into an auction for private buyers in Milan.

A Lamborghini auction, it turns out.

 _Of course,_ Arthur thinks, and it makes something ache in him, in that small corner where he keeps memories of Eames pressed away like lavender in a book. He laughs, shakes his head. Of course.

Mal argues with the auction staff in clipped, aggressive Italian and gets them seats in the second row even though they shouldn’t have been allowed in at all without a reservation. She smiles at Arthur as they sit down, hands him a numbered paddle, and mouths _show no mercy_. 

Arthur watches two-dozen cars come and go from the block. He hums appreciatively at a few, but he doesn’t make a bid. He’s waiting. He wants to see something he can’t live without.

It’s number 26 that does it—a matte grey Lamborghini Reventón. There are only 20 of them in the world. It is so gorgeous his mouth goes dry.    

Arthur outbids the whole room—1.2 million dollars, his entire take from the Belgrade job, the Madrid job, and then some. Mal claps her hands when he wins it, kisses him right on the mouth. They throw their heads back laughing.

He signs the papers an hour later, and that’s it. It’s his. He feels the weight of the keys in his hand. Not borrowed, not stolen, not given. _His._  

He drives it all the way home, all the way back to Paris.

He takes every hill too fast, thinking of Eames, laughing around the lump of ache in his throat.

 

 

***

 

 

A year passes.

Arthur barely notices, the days dissolving so fast under his feet. But the weeks collect, and the months fold together, and no matter the reasons, no matter how they change, the result is the same:

Arthur does not seek Eames; Eames does not find Arthur.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Arthur yanks at the rim of his collar, regretting his suit in the thick Jakarta heat. He knows if he dresses like a kid they're going to treat him like one, so even if it is 30 degrees too hot for it, it's necessary.

Arthur is the muscle today. He likes to let Dom think it's beneath him, the whole gun-toting sidekick routine, but the truth is, he enjoys it. Leading well-trained thugs on a merry chase is one of the more entertaining parts of the job.

He's halfway across town, dragging the tail that was on Dom past the spice market and up towards the bay. The last one’s right on top of him, a persistent asshole with muscles the size of submachine guns. But it doesn't take much to double-back and approach from behind, landing the butt of his gun to the back of the man’s head.    

He hits the ground with a meaty thud. Arthur checks his vitals—strong pulse, breath even, no blood. He'll wake up in three hours with a bad headache and a bump the size of a ping-pong ball. No harm done.

It's almost dark out, just sliding past dusk. The heat is as heavy as ever. Arthur has a couple of hours to kill before he’s supposed to loop back around town to meet up with Dom and Mal, so he drops into a bar to wait it out. The crowd is a comfortable mix of locals and foreigners, but no tourists.

Arthur orders a bottle of Bintang, groaning out loud when the bartender slaps it on his table and a thick sheet of condensation slides down the glass. He picks the bottle up without opening it, turning it sideways and pressing it to the back of his neck. He hisses; the cold is harsh and pleasurable.

Arthur typically makes it a point not to get drunk alone, but the beer here is cool and sweet, and he has four in him before he really notices. Everything becomes touched with a honey-colored haze.

There is some gambling going on towards the back—nothing too ruckus, just a few blackjack tables, a roulette stand. It wouldn't keep catching his attention, except that there’s this man sitting with his back to Arthur, his green linen jacket a little worn at the elbows. He touches two poker chips together, over and over.

It's not new, Arthur seeing Eames. He sees Eames everywhere—in glimpses and drifts, in train cars and baggage claims, in the faces of men he crosses in the rain. None of them are ever Eames.

Arthur can tell that the man is losing from the bunch of his shoulders, from the way he fingers his cards too carefully. He moves like Eames. 

Arthur takes a heavy swig from his bottle and turns away.

It's a quarter to ten, still too early to go and meet Dom. Arthur decides to have one more beer, for lack of any better ideas. He orders a house draft this time instead of the bottled stuff he's been drinking. It's foamy—probably too rich for his fifth beer of the night—but it goes down smooth, tastes bright like the heat.

Something bumps Arthur's shoulder, jostling the mug in his hand. It’s the man in the linen jacket, moving through the maze of tables with a small pile of chips. He's headed to the window to cash out, a look of resigned frustration on his familiar face.

Arthur blinks. He scrubs at both eyes with his knuckles. 

The image doesn't resolve, doesn't rearrange itself the way it should. The man's face refuses to morph into something that makes sense. Arthur is struck with the wild idea that maybe Eames has a twin—that Arthur should have spent more time researching his background, because maybe he would've discovered that Eames has an estranged brother living in Indonesia, one with heavy stubble and a preference for olive-colored linens.

Before he can think better of it, Arthur is on his feet, walking toward the man. He’s certain the illusion will crumble if he gets close enough. The man will move a certain way, will speak in the wrong voice, and that’ll be it—he’ll fade into the crowd, just another stranger, another one of Arthur’s mistakes. That’s how this goes. Arthur knows the routine well enough.

The man pushes his chips through the small mouth of the window. He rubs a hand over his jaw, pulls a bent cigarette out from his shirt pocket. Arthur is four, maybe five feet away. He has a clear view of the man's face, of the shape of him in the light. It doesn't help. It doesn't dampen the image of Eames, only resolves it more sharply. Arthur feels a fine tremor start to trace his limbs, his body reacting to the sight without his consent.

"Eames?" 

Arthur doesn't mean to say it. It breaks out of him, skidding past his teeth.

The man looks up. His thick mouth falls slack at the sight of Arthur.

Before Arthur can think of anything else to say, the man's face changes, wiping itself entirely of that open look of surprise. It's replaced with something cool and impenetrable. 

"Good to see you, darling,” the man says, his tone a flick of ash. He drops the unlit cigarette between his teeth.

A thin stack of bills is pushed though the gap in the window. Eames nods his thanks, folds the money into his wallet, and walks away. He doesn't walk particularly slow or particularly fast, just heads toward the exit with both hands in his pockets. The door swings closed behind him.

Arthur stands there, feeling stripped to the marrow. He watches the skinny wooden door rock on its hinges—proof that Eames was here, that he had walked through it.

It takes Arthur a few minutes to realize someone is yelling at him. It's the bartender, waving his tab and pointing at the table he left behind.

Arthur gathers himself, stuttering an apology in the wrong language. He walks over and tosses a wad of bills onto the scratched wood, more than enough. He stands there, gripping the edge of the table.  _Eames_. It’s a chorus in his head, that one word. Arthur’s skin stings with it.  _Eames, Eames, Eames._

He's out the door, dragging the dense Jakarta air into his lungs, before he can think better of it.

 

***

 

He catches up to Eames where the city meets the water.

There is a heavy breeze coming off the bay, cutting through the heat. It keeps his head clear, clear enough that he realizes he has no idea what to say. He hasn't known what to say for a year. 

Eames is standing at the edge of one of the docks, finishing his cigarette and watching the water in silence. Arthur's shoes are loud on the rough wood behind him, but Eames doesn't turn. He keeps his eyes on the water, letting his cigarette bleed out into the air. 

"There’s no point," Eames says abruptly.

Arthur halts mid-step. He swallows, his throat too tight. "No point to what?"

“Whatever reason you followed me.”   

“I’m not—I don’t know why I followed you.”

Eames laughs. There is nothing warm in it, just a dry rasp of air. “Of course you don’t.”

“Why are you in Jakarta?” Arthur blurts. It's the least important question. He feels like an idiot for asking it. 

Eames flicks the stub of his cigarette out into the water. "No particular reason."

“Eames—”

“If you have something to say, Arthur, then bloody say it.” Eames turns to face him, his grey eyes harsh and roiling. “Otherwise, I’d prefer to enjoy a smoke in peace, if it’s all the same to you.” He drops a new cigarette between his teeth and lights it. 

Arthur watches the paper curl back from the heat, counts every new line on Eames’ face. 

“I’m—” Arthur draws in a thick, unsteady breath. “I’m sorry.”

Eames smiles faintly, like there is something funny about all this. “You're sorry,” he repeats. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette.

Arthur hears the crack before he feels it. He's flat on his ass, watching Eames wince and shake out his knuckles, before he registers the burst of pain in his jaw. 

"Have a lovely life, darling," Eames says, a little out of breath. He steps over Arthur, making his way down the dock. 

Arthur scrambles off the ground, grabbing Eames with both hands and wrenching him around. "Eames, what the _fuck_."

“Don’t pretend that you have any right to—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Arthur snaps, thumbing a dribble of blood from his lip.

“What’s wrong with _me_?” Eames laughs, big and bitter. “Do you honestly think that you—”

Eames sucks in a mouthful of air, swallowing down the rest of his sentence. He shoves past Arthur, walking ahead of him. He crosses into one of the narrow alleyways that vein the city. Arthur trails after him, resisting the childish urge to break into a run.

“Eames, would you just fucking wait for a second—”

Eames keeps walking, ignoring Arthur on his heels.

Arthur grabs him by both shoulders and shoves him back against the uneven brick. Eames clamps his jaw shut and pushes Arthur twice as hard, forcing him against the opposite wall of the alleyway. Eames crowds into him, trapping him with the heavy bulk of his body. Arthur grabs two fistfuls of Eames’ jacket, attempting to gain some measure of control.

“ _What_ ,” Eames bites out, so sharp it could cut Arthur, “are you trying to accomplish, hmm? Does it amuse you, following me about?”

Arthur’s brow snaps to a scowl. “I’m not _following_ you, I’m just trying to—”

"Won’t Dom and Mal be missing you by now?"

Arthur's hands go slack in Eames’ jacket. "You know that I’m with—"

"Yes, of course, Arthur, I fucking _know_." Eames spits the words at him.

Arthur sees it then—the constellation of hurt in Eames, the way his face can't quite hide it. 

"Eames, I'm—" Arthur swallows, knowing there is almost nothing he can say. Every excuse feels threadbare.

"Tell me then, I've been curious—how much of it was a job?” Eames asks, every word ripe and dripping with loathing. “Was I the mark? Did you need to get your hands on the Fischer-Morrow case for some reason, or was there—"

"None of it was a job," Arthur says, taken aback. "I didn’t even meet Dom or Mal until—Jesus, is this honestly what you think? That I was running some job on you?"

"You left town,” Eames says. “You were gone within days. It was professionally done."

"But you can't think—" 

"I was terrified at first. I thought someone might have—I called Mal to see if she’d heard anything from you. She said she hadn’t, that she couldn’t help me.”

Arthur feels his stomach drop. The guilt sits in his veins like lead.

"I looked for you. I did everything I could think of. After seven bloody months I ended up in Madrid, chasing a lead I didn’t think would produce anything, but then—" Eames laughs, eyes dropping away from Arthur. "Then there you were. You and Mal had been out shopping. For shoes, I think."

“Christ, Eames, it wasn’t—”

"I thought maybe she was just helping you," Eames says. "That she had gotten you some money, somewhere new to live. But then you went and met up with that posh shit Jude, who Dom for some reason thinks is an acceptable replacement for my skillset—”

"You don't understand, we were—"

“I watched him kiss you hello. You had a two-hour lunch with him outside the Prado with his hand on your thigh.”

Arthur shuts his eyes. He lets his breath out, shuddering under the weight of all those months sprawled out between them.

“In any event, that made the situation perfectly clear,” Eames says. "I left for the airport the same day.”

Arthur shakes his head. "I get what it looks like, but none of that is how it—"

“I meant what I said.” Eames steps out of Arthur's lax grip, letting some air between them. “I hope you have a lovely life, I really do.”

Eames stands there, all the fight gone out of him. He traces Arthur with tired eyes, slow and careful, like he’s trying to memorize him. It’s not playful or warm. It’s nothing like the way Eames used to look at him. He is regarding Arthur like a painting in a museum, something remote, something you’re meant to walk away from.

Arthur realizes that Eames is saying goodbye.

“No,” Arthur says. “ _No_.”

He grabs two handfuls of Eames, not thinking, not planning any of it, and pulls him forward, bringing their mouths together. For five perfect, messy seconds, Eames kisses him back, thawing into Arthur like it’s necessary, like breathing.

A moment later, Eames reels away like he’s been burnt.

“ _Fuck_ you, Arthur,” Eames says, raw and low, almost on the edge of a sob.

“You’re wrong,” Arthur tells him, nearly begs him, needing him to hear it. “I left, and I know that. I asked Mal to lie to you for me, and I know that, I’m—I did a lot of shitty things, but I never—the rest of it you have completely fucking _wrong_ , okay.”

Eames clamps his jaw shut, air punching out through his nostrils.

“There was no job,” Arthur says. “I was never conning you. I didn’t even meet Dom or Mal until after you and I had already —I only know them because of you. Everything, everything I told you about myself was true. You were my client at first and then you—you were just you.”

Eames drags a hand over his hair, letting it come to rest at the heavy column of his nape. He isn’t looking at Arthur.

“Jude was nothing. I was trying to, I don’t know, prove something. Trying to get over you. It was stupid.”

“Why did you disappear?” Eames asks. “Why did you make it impossible for me to find you?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I don’t—I was scared. I panicked.”

“That’s not good enough. That’s not a good enough reason to let me think you were dead.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I didn’t _know!_ ” Eames shouts. “You could have been dead, or hurt, or taken, or could have joined the bloody fucking circus, Arthur. That’s the point. I didn’t know what happened. I couldn’t find a trace of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, thick with guilt. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

"I'm exhausted. I'm exhausted of this.” Eames rubs his temple with the heel of his hand. “I appreciate you clearing things up, I do. But it’s all a bit too late. It really makes no difference.”

Arthur feels cold, colder than he has any right to in furnace of Jakarta.

“Cheers then,” Eames says, turning away.    

“So that’s it?” Arthur demands, feeling greedy all of the sudden, feeling like Eames’ anger is catching. “We just go back to our lives like two fucking strangers?”

“We are strangers, Arthur.”

“I lied to you,” Arthur shouts, casting out his last card, the only one he has left.

Eames stops. He turns around. His expression does something funny, settles itself between a laugh and a glare. “Yeah, I’d worked that bit out for myself.”

“No,” Arthur says. “When I left, I lied to you.”

Eames’ expression falls carefully blank.

“You asked me if I—”

“I remember what I asked you,” Eames says, his voice a warning.

“Well, I fucking lied. I panicked, and I didn’t—” Arthur gulps down a mouthful of thick, humid air. It makes his throat feel heavier. “I love you. I still—I did then, and I do.” Arthur looks straight at Eames, not running from it.

A muscle jumps in Eames’ jaw. “What am I supposed to—what do you expect me to say to that?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“That’s supposed to make everything better then?” Eames asks, his voice tired and quiet. “It’s meant to fix everything?”

“It’s not meant to do anything, Eames, it just is.”

Eames casts his eyes to the ground, rubbing his forehead. After a minute, he says, “I wish you hadn’t told me.”

Arthur takes that harder than the punch. He opens his mouth, closes it again. “Why?” he scrapes out.

“Because it makes more sense the other way,” Eames says, still not looking at him. “You running a job on me, all of it being a set up. It was a small comfort getting to cast you as the villain.”

Arthur swallows. “So what am I now?”

“I don’t know,” Eames says, barely audible. “I have no idea.”

“Eames—”

“How long would this have gone on?” Eames lifts his head, looks at Arthur. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot. “If we hadn’t happened across one another, then what? You’d have been fine with this? Letting me think you were heartless or whatever else for the rest of my life?”

“I thought about going back, I just—”

“You thought about it!” Eames laughs, rattling and wet, too close to a sob. “How good of you. Spent a few hours on it, then? Thank you, Arthur, really, it’s such a comfort to know you _thought_ about it.”  

“That’s not fair, you’re—”

“I didn’t take you for such a coward after all the—”

“I am a coward!” Arthur shouts, nearly screams. “Is that what you want to hear? Yes, Eames, I am a fucking coward and I ran and I had no idea how to go back after that. I was scared and I am _sorry_.”

Eames works his jaw, his eyes flicking away from Arthur. The water that’d been collecting in his eyes, heavy but still, finally spills over, rolling down in fat beads. Arthur watches them catch in his stubble and splay apart. Arthur wants to put his mouth there—wants to taste the wet, sure salt of Eames, feel the heavy catch of stubble under his tongue. He wants to hear Eames laugh without the feel of razor blades underneath. He wants Eames to forgive him.

He steps closer. Eames squares his shoulders, his body an unyielding line. Arthur’s not sure if the way Eames closes his hands into fists is a threat or a plea for something, but he doesn't stop. He walks until they’re toe to toe.

Arthur knows he did this—ruined whatever delicate, reckless thing there was between them. But he needs something, needs to gather a handful of Eames to take with him.

His knees are touching Eames now, the delicate pressure of limbs kissing here and there. Eames is rigid and still, tension ringing over him.

Without a word, Arthur leans his head low, settling it against the slope of Eames’ shoulder. He takes slow, greedy breaths of skin and linen. He pulls Eames into his lungs, flavoring all of his oxygen with the heavy taste of him. Eames makes a sound like a whimper, something soft and lost. Arthur breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

Eames settles his hand at the taper of Arthur’s neck. He smooths his thumb, up and down.

“Arthur,” Eames says, after what feels like hours. “Don’t follow me this time.”

Eames gently separates himself. He walks down the narrow alleyway, further and further, until he falls out of sight.

Arthur lets him go.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEAR NOT. A new chapter is finally here! :) Click onward, friends.


	21. Chapter 21

Arthur thumbs the edge of his plane ticket. It’s loud in the airport, the waiting area swarmed with languages he doesn’t speak. Once in a while he can pick up a scrap of something, a word or two, mostly the things Mal taught him. _Yes. No. Hurry._

The job went sour four days ago. They always knew it was going to be dangerous, but it wasn’t until Arthur was scrabbling behind a dumpster to avoid thick gunfire that he understood the exact level of shit Dom had gotten them into.

Arthur dug them out of it, in the end—he got the package, rerouted it to the drop location, and spirited Mal and Dom away on the first flight out of Jakarta. Arthur bought his own ticket for a flight leaving two hours later, headed in the other direction. He’s covered from neck to knees in every shade of purple, but he’s alive, and so are Dom and Mal, and that’s all that matters.

He folds and unfolds the ticket in his hand. His flight is boarding in a few minutes.

He looks out the window. There isn’t much to see besides airstrip, but Arthur can remember every detail of the city, knows exactly how Jakarta feels under his feet. He thinks about the one night he got to spend in the city doing nothing, before Dom dropped them into a tailspin. He thinks about the taste of sweet, heavy beer—about the sight and feel of Eames.    

It wasn’t hard for Arthur to figure out where Eames was staying after that. If you ask the right people the right questions, you can get just about anything. Mal taught him that. Arthur’s got the address written on a scrap of paper, shoved into his pocket.

It’s pointless to keep it. He has no idea why he went to so much trouble to get it in the first place. Eames made it clear that he wanted nothing more to do with him. Either way, it hardly matters. Arthur is leaving.

He lets his mind wander for a while, watching fidgety travelers mill around the terminal. Eventually, an announcement bleeds out from the airport speakers. His flight is boarding.

He stands up, sliding his bag over his shoulder. He watches the line form at his departure gate. His feet should be moving; he knows that. He should be getting in line. He should be finding his seat and eating his in-flight meal and making a list of all the things he needs to do as soon as he gets to St. Petersburg, to fix the mess this job made.

He needs to get on that plane. He shouldn’t be hesitating. Jakarta is nothing but a minefield for him now. But the address in his pocket feels like an anchor, like a cord tethering him to the city. He thinks of Eames, of the heavy line of his shoulders, of the heartbreak etched into his skin.

Arthur’s hands start to shake, rattling the ticket clutched in his fingers. This shouldn’t be a choice. If he wants to live, he’ll get on that goddamn plane. He’s lucky he made it to the airport in one piece the first time. If he goes back into the city, he’s a dead man.

Arthur wills himself to move his feet, to get on the plane. But there is something at the center of him, something fighting and screaming to stay. He thinks of the last time he walked away from Eames, of all the space it pressed between them, and he knows, he _knows_ , he can’t do it again. He can’t. He won’t survive it.

He’s a dead man either way.

Arthur lets his bag slump to the floor. He turns and walks in the opposite direction of his departure gate.

 

 

***

 

 

Getting out of the airport is even more of a delicate challenge than getting in.

Exiting through the main doors isn’t an option; he might as well paint a target on the middle of his chest. He does a few laps through the terminal, looking for another way out. He spots a reasonably secluded exit near a row of garbage cans. It’s probably his best chance, but the door has a swipe lock and is marked “Personnel Only”.

He searches the crowd until he finds what he needs: an airport worker, lazily refilling a candy display in one of the shops. Arthur walks over and stands next to her, inspecting the snack options. He picks up a bag of M&Ms, considers them for a moment, and then puts them back on the shelf. He casually brushes past her as he walks away and, in one smooth movement, relieves her of her employee swipe card.

He heads back towards the exit, making sure no one is paying any particular attention to him. The airport is crowded; the kind of crowded that obscures instead of exposes. He swipes the card through the lock and pushes the door open.

The exit spills him out near a row of massive baggage carts, the type that haul luggage back and forth between the planes and the terminal. Arthur uses the carts as cover, walking briskly behind them, eyes up, like he’s meant to be there. He nabs a hardhat that’s resting on a ledge next to an empty cup of coffee and drops it onto his head. From far enough away, he probably looks like one of the suits from Air Traffic Control headed out on lunch break. It’ll have to do.

Arthur follows the line of the high metal fence wrapped around the airport’s perimeter, searching for an exit. He eventually finds a side gate that leads out onto an empty dirt road. It’s marked as an emergency exit—it’ll probably set off some kind of massive security alert when he opens it, but it’s his best option.

He unhooks the latch on the gate and shoves his shoulder into it, forcing it open. As soon as the gate swings wide, an alarm shrills, loud and insistent. Arthur doesn’t hesitate; he double-times it, hitting a hard run along the wide crumbling road.

He runs for nearly an hour, his muscles roaring in protest. He doesn’t slow until he’s put solid miles between him and the airport, sinking into the west side of the city.

He throws off his suit jacket as he runs, ditches his tie. He uses his fingers to mess up the neat comb of his hair. There is a small army of hired thugs swarming Jakarta right now, looking for him. They know what he looks like—probably have thick dossiers on him. Changing his clothes and hair won’t do much to throw them off, but at least it’s something.

Arthur takes the address out of his pocket. Eames is staying in a shithole hotel in north Jakarta, probably an hour away by foot. Walking out in the open isn’t ideal, but Arthur can’t risk public transit (too many cameras, too many ways to get trapped), and half of the taxi drivers in the city double as hired guns, so that isn’t—

A tight whizzing sound snaps past Arthur’s left shoulder, halting his train of thought. He drops to the ground on instinct. Three more bullets chase the first, _crack, crack, crack_ , speeding through the empty air where his head was a second ago.

He crawls forward and takes cover behind a thick slab of metal siding that’s leaning against a brick building. He hears the rumble and screech of a motorbike slamming to a halt nearby. Another peel of gunfire goes off, shaking the metal sheet covering him.

Arthur doesn’t have a gun on him. The only weapon he has is a small knife on his calf—all he could smuggle through airport security. The only thing he can do is wait for the reload and run.

He slows his breathing, listening as bullets rattle the metal around him. As soon as he hears the little telltale gap of silence marking the reload, he vaults up from the ground. He whips down a thin gap between two buildings, running hard.

He hears the motorbike thundering behind him, still in pursuit. Arthur cuts down a different alleyway, a narrower one this time, hoping to hell it’ll be too thin and sinuous for the rider to follow.

A new crackle of gunfire goes off behind him. The rider is still on him, navigating the narrow warrens with ease. Arthur feels a raw burst of pain in his arm. He swears a blue streak, doubling-back and running down a different alley. There is a tall, solid metal gate at the end of it. Arthur sprints forward, running harder than he ever has. He scales the gate in one go, thankful for the adrenaline soaking his veins. 

When he hits the opposite side of the gate, he drops low and pulls his knife. His arm hurts like hell, but he can tell it’s not serious. He ignores the _drip, drip, drip_ of blood from his bicep. The bullet only grazed him.

Arthur hears the rider come to a hard stop on the other side of the tall barrier, ditching his bike. The man starts to scale the gate, boots heavy on the hard metal. Arthur crouches lower, waiting.

As soon as the man throws his legs over the top, Arthur grabs him, dragging him down to the ground and disarming him. The man fights dirty—spits in Arthur’s face, lands a hard knee to his ribs, but Arthur flattens him against the concrete and grips him in a tight chokehold. The man struggles, tries to shake Arthur off, but Arthur holds him steady by the throat, easing him into unconsciousness.

When the man finally goes still, Arthur drops the pressure from his neck. He checks the man’s breathing—labored but even. He’ll be out for a while.

Arthur gets up, ignoring the rough ache spread over his body. He tears off part of his sleeve to wrap a makeshift bandage around his bicep. It’s not pretty, but it should be enough to staunch the bleeding. He works the leather jacket off of the rider’s shoulders and puts it on, hoping it’ll offer some camouflage. He takes the rider’s gun and the two clips of ammo he finds on him. It’ll have to be enough.

He climbs back over the gate, wincing as his freshly bruised ribs drag over the hard metal. He picks up the rider’s helmet from the ground and puts it on, tugging the strap snug under his chin. He straddles the bike and kicks the motor twice, maneuvering through the alleyways and out onto the main road.

He slices through Jakarta’s heavy afternoon traffic, heading north. The heat is smothering inside the stiff leather of his jacket. Arthur feels sweat pour down his back, feels his throbbing ribs and his torn-up arm and every other injury he’s collected over the last four days competing for his attention. He shoves it all down, focuses on the feel of the air speeding past him, cool and swift.

 _This is pointless. This won’t make him forgive you. This won’t make him want you again._ The doubts flood Arthur as he rides, blurring on top of one another. He ignores them, thinks instead of the soft feel of Eames’ fingers on the back of his neck, gentle like forgiveness. He has to try. He can’t leave without seeing Eames again, even if it’s just to say a real goodbye.

He rips the bike to a hard stop in front of Hotel Mimpi. The sign is heavy with rust, hanging lopsided off of two frail hinges. It looks more like a decomposing heap than a hotel. He double-checks the address. It’s the right place.  

He gets off the bike. He unstraps the helmet from his chin, his fingers gone clumsy. He feels two sizes too small, now that he’s here. He feels like a kid underneath all the leather and blood and bruises. He makes himself walk up to the dirty wooden door and push it open.

He sees Eames right away. He’s sitting towards the back, leaning against the soft green felt of a roulette table. He’s wearing a puce-colored shirt open wide at the collar. His skin is tanned, his stubble thick. The dark creases under his eyes look even more pronounced than they did four days ago. The pile of chips in front of him is low.

The six-table setup pretending to be a casino isn’t drawing much of a crowd. A handful of rough and tumble types are freckled around the room, drinking watered-down whiskey, but Eames is the only one seated at the roulette table. He is watching the marble’s progression with tired eyes.

Arthur walks toward him. He takes slow breaths, each one heavy in his chest.

Eames catches sight of him. He sits up in his chair, his brow heavy with confusion. Arthur strips off his sweat-soaked jacket as he crosses the room, letting it slop to the floor. He is panting, bleeding, limping a little. Eames stares at him, his expression going soft as he takes in the sight of Arthur’s injured arm, his torn clothes, his blood-caked hands.

Arthur aches in every one of his overstressed muscles. He’s sweat-drenched and sunburnt, his limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and god, _god_ , all he wants to do is pour himself into Eames. He wants Eames to touch him, to kiss his forehead, to make everything simple again.

He doesn’t realize what he’s going to do until he does it. He walks straight to Eames, not caring that there’s anyone else in the room, and sinks down onto his lap, grabbing him by the collar and pressing their mouths together.

Arthur knows he has no right. He knows he must taste like burnt coffee and acid reflux. But Eames just kisses back, easy and open, steadying Arthur with two firm hands at the center of his back. Arthur breathes heavy between kisses, leans all his weight into Eames.

“Rough day?” Eames murmurs, pulling back to wipe a streak of dirt from Arthur’s cheek.

It startles a laugh out of Arthur. “Something like that,” he answers, his voice gone rusty. Little tears eke out of the corners of his eyes. Everything feels too heavy, too light. Eames kisses the dip of his chin, the corner of his mouth. Arthur tightens his grip on Eames’ collar. He can’t even think about letting go.

The heavy staccato of gunfire snaps Arthur out of his reverie. He flattens himself to the floor, dragging Eames with him. Gunfire crackles into the table above their heads, spitting bits of wood onto them like flakes of snow. Arthur pulls his gun out, snapping off the safety.

“Friends of yours?” Eames asks, ducking lower as a new spray of gunfire hits above their heads.

“Not exactly,” Arthur grumbles. “Stay down.”

Arthur vaults up from behind the table and returns fire, shattering bottles and shooting holes through the cheap furniture. He can’t get a good look at whoever is firing back at him, but it seems to just be one shooter, at least for now.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Arthur says, ducking under the table again. “Is there a back exit?”

“Yes, behind the bar, just over there.” Eames hooks a thumb over his shoulder. Arthur sees a small door propped open next to a garbage can.

“Okay, on three, we run. Any chance you have a weapon?”

“Just my killer charm,” Eames says, and winks at Arthur, as though they aren’t in the middle of a gunfight.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Arthur says, and kisses Eames hard, just once, because they both might be dead in a minute. “Three.”

Eames sprints for the door. Arthur covers them both as he runs, emptying his clip in the general direction of the shooter.

“This way!” Eames shouts over his shoulder, weaving between two decaying buildings. Arthur follows, running as hard as his body will let him. Eames navigates the interconnected mess of streets and alleyways like he’s lived in Jakarta all his life, guiding them swiftly through the city. Arthur’s arm is throbbing, bleeding steadily at his side. He pushes the pain to the back of his mind, forcing himself to keep moving.

They tear through a crowded market street, dodging slow-moving tourists and heaping bins of merchandise. Arthur chases the pink-brown paisley of Eames’ shirt as it winks in and out of the crowd, following as best he can.

Eames makes a hard right turn, dodging behind a high-rise near Pluit Junction. When Arthur rounds the corner to follow, Eames grabs him by the waist and presses him back against the wall of the building. He touches his index finger to his lips, indicating that they should be silent. The hard drag of their breath mingles with the sounds of the city—cars and motorbikes and people going about their day—but nothing else. No feet chasing them, no gunfire.

When it’s clear they’re safe, Eames bends over to catch his breath, planting both hands on his knees.

“Christ, love, who did you piss off?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Arthur says, letting his body slump against the wall behind him.

“Short version?”

“Three multinational corporations and two foreign governments,” Arthur says. “It was mostly Dom’s fault.”

Eames stares at him. Then, sudden as gunfire, he bursts out laughing. Huge, heaving guffaws overtake him, so hard he nearly tips over. Arthur can’t help the laughter that shakes out of him in return.

“God,” Eames says, between rolls of laughter. “God, Arthur, you are something else. What’s your bloody exit plan?”

“Had one,” Arthur says, his laughs rusting to a chuckle. “I was supposed to get on a plane an hour ago.”

“Why the hell didn’t you?”

Eames is half falling over, smiling and drenched in sweat. He’s got Arthur’s blood all over him. Arthur is so in love he can't see straight. 

“I had something left to do,” Arthur says. He smooths exhausted, graceless fingers down Eames’ sternum, feeling the last little jumps and catches of his laughter.

In the distance, thunder rattles over the bay. The heat is breaking.    

Arthur’s head starts to swim. He’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or the exhaustion, but before he can sort through what exactly is happening to him, his eyelids droop, the world fading to slits. His body crumples to the concrete.

Around him, the rain starts to pour. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently a WIP, but I will finish! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kind words and comments. It's been so motivating to hear from so many of you. And a huge thanks to earlgreytea68 for giving this a read and helping me get out of panic mode regarding it, and for katie for being a beautiful beta along the way. 
> 
> If you need a little more to tide you over, I have an extra from Paper Things up on my tumblr -- it's the Interlude chapter from Eames' perspective: 
> 
> http://saltandanchor.tumblr.com/post/90724885421/for-those-of-you-who-follow-my-posts-and-have-said
> 
> Thank you all again for reading! AND I PROMISE I WILL FINISH!
> 
> x
> 
> ps - in case there is any confusion, i did change my username from snookiescookies to saltandanchor !


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